(8C-* 

EURIPIDES 


ft 

BY 

WILLIAM  BODHAM  DONNE 

*  \  \ 


NEW  YORK 

JOHN  B.  ALDEN,  PUBLISHER 

'  1S83  ^ 

BOSTON  COLLEGE  LIBRARY 

:  CHESTNUT  HILL.  Mass 


f/3 

3 

*  AE 

El 

i88B 


133805 


ADVERTISEMENT. 

The  writer  desires  to  express  liis  acknowledgments 
to  Mr.  Robert  Browning,  for  his  kind  permission  to 
make  use  of  his  “  Balaustion”  in  the  account  given  of 
“Alcestis;”  to  Mrs.  Augusta  Webster,  for  a  similar 
favor  in  the  case  of  the  “Medea;”  and  to  Mr.  Maurice 
Purcell  Fitzgerald,  in  that  of  the  “  HippoJytus.”  The 
translations  which  they  have  respectively  allowed  him 
to  use  are  recorded  in  footnotes,  as  well  as  those  which 
are  taken  from  the  versions  of  Greek  tragic  poets  by  the 
late  Deans  Milman  and  Alford.  Where  the  translated 
passages  are  not  attributed  to  an  author,  they  are  taken 
from  Potter,  in  the  absence  of  better  renderings.  He 
wishes  also  to  commemorate  his  obligations  to  Mr.  F. 
A.  Paley  for  the  frequent  and  valuable  assistance  af¬ 
forded  by  his  Prefaces  and  Notes  to  the  Plays  of  Euri¬ 
pides.  It  may  be  hoped  that,  with  his  edition  of  the 
Athenian  poet,  a  new  epoch  begins  for  the  estimation  of 
him  by  classical  as  well  as  English  readers.  Mr.  Paley 
evidently  regards  Euripides  in  a  very  similar  light  to 
that  taken  of  him  by  Ben  Jonson — that  “he  is  some¬ 
times  peccant,  as  he  is  most  times  perfect,” 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER.  PACE. 

I.  Athens  in  the  Days  of  Euripides . . .  7 

II.  Life  of  Euripides .  28 

III.  The  Scenic  Philosopher .  51 

IV.  Alcestis.— Medea . 73 

V.  The  Two  Iphigenias .  94 

VI.  The  Bacchanals .  113 

VII.  Ion.— Hippolytus . 127 

VIII.  The  Phoenician  Woman.— The  Suppliants.— The  Chil¬ 
dren  of  Hercules.— The  Phrenzy  of  Hercules .  144 

IX.  The  Tale  of  Troy:  Hecuba.— The  Trojan  Women .  156 

IX.  The  Cyclops . . .  170 


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I 


EURIPIDES. 


CHAPTER  I. 

ATHENS  IN  THE  DAYS  OP  EURIPIDES. 

“  Behold 

Where  on  the  iEgean  shore  a  city  stands, 

Built  nobly,  pure  the  air  and  light  the  soil, 

Athens,  the  eye  of  Greece,  mother  of  arts 
And  eloquence,  native  to  famous  wits 
Or  hospitable.”— Par.  Regained. 

The  greater  poets  of  all  times  and  countries,  no  less 
than  historians  and  philosophers,  admit  of  being  con¬ 
templated  under  a  twofold  aspect — literary  and  histori¬ 
cal.  Under  the  former,  we  may  mark  how  they  acted 
upon  their  age;  under  the  latter,  how  far  they  reflected 
it.  Of  the  form  and  spirit  of  their  generation,  they  are 
the  representatives  to  later  ages — throwing  light  on  its 
history,  on  the  state  of  its  language  and  cultivation,  and 
in  return  receiving  light  from  those  sources.  Euripides 
was  no  exception  to  this  general  law :  he  materially  af¬ 
fected  the  time  he  lived  in;  he  derived  from  the  circum¬ 
stances  in  which  his  lot  was  cast  many  of  the  features 
that  distinguish  him  from  iEscfiylus  and  Sophocles.  As 
a  citizen,  he  differed  from  them  almost  as  widely  as  if 
he  had  not  been  born  in  their  days;  and  still  more 
widely  did  he  stand  apart  from  them  in  the  practice 


8 


EURIPIDES. 


and  theory  of  dramatic  composition.  Accordingly,  a 
few  remarks  on  Athens  in  the  time  of  Euripides  may 
not  be  an  inappropriate  prelude  to  an  account  of  his  life 
and  writings. 

The  Athens  in  which  the  boyhood  of  Euripides  was 
spent  was  little  more  than  an  ordinary  town,  the  capital 
of  a  district  about  the  size  of  an  average  English  county. 
Pisistratus  and  his  sons  had  begun  to  adorn  the  city 
with  some  temples,  and  at  least  erected  a  portion  of  the 
Dionysiac  theatre;  but  it  is  doubtful  whether  this  com¬ 
mencement,  or  anticipation  of  the  structures  of  Pericles, 
was  not  either  destroyed  or  seriously  injured  by  the 
Persian  invader.  Before  that  calamity  had  aroused  the 
spirit  of  her  citizens,  Athens  was  indeed  little  more  than 
a  cluster  of  villages  surrounded  by  a  common  wall.  A 
wooden  rampart  was  the  only  defence  of  the  citadel. 
No  fortifications  connected  the  city  with  its  harbors, 
two  of  which  were  still  open  roads.  Even  the  Pisistra- 
tids  appear  not  to  have  ventured  on  building  for  them¬ 
selves  stately  mansions,  or  to  have  called  in  the  art  of 
painters  or  sculptors  to  adorn  Athens  itself.  They  did 
not  possess  the  funds  that  Cimon  and  Pericles  com¬ 
manded  for  great  public  works.  They  presided  over  a 
jealous  people  by  force  of  arms,  and  dreaded  provoking 
it  by  offensive  displays  either  of  wealth  or  power.  Not 
♦until  the  democracy  was  satisfied  with  its  representatives, 
and  proud  of  its  land  and  its  capital,  was  it  possible  to 
indulge  in  lavish  expenditure,  or  to  win  for  Athens  the 
titles  of  “  the  eye  of  Greece’’  and  “the  violet  Queen.” 

The  period  that  elapsed  between  the  first  and  second 
invasion  by  the  Persians  was  fraught  with  too  much 
anxiety  to  admit  of  beautifying  the  city:  all  that  could 
be  done  was  to  supply  at  least  one  tenable  outwork,  and 
that  some  miles  distant  from  Athens  itself.  It  was  the 


ATHENS  IN  THE  DA  YS  OF  EURIPIDES.  9 


wisdom  of  Tliemistocles  to  discern  that  the  very  exist¬ 
ence  of  his  country,  if  it  were  not  to  become  a  Persian 
satrapy,  depended  on  ships  and  not  on  walls.  To  insure 
the  security  and  efficiency  of  the  fleet,  a  fortified  harbor 
was  indispensable.  The  mud-built  or  wooden  cottages, 
the  narrow  and  crooked  streets  of  the  capital,  must  be 
abandoned  to  the  Mede;  and  such  treasure  as  was  then 
available  be  employed  on  the  port  and  docks  of  Peirseus. 

The  victories  that  finally  expelled  the  Persian  from 
Hellenic  ground  were  consummated  in  b.c.  466  by 
the  battles  at  the  Eurymedon,  “when  Cimon  tri¬ 
umphed  both  by  laud  and  sea.”  Athens,  after  the 
retreat  of  Mardonius,  was  little  better  than  a  ruinous 
heap.  The  fire  worshippers  had  done  their  worst  on 
her  temples;  had  levelled  her  streets,  torn  down  her 
feeble  walls,  and  trampled  under  foot  with  their  horse¬ 
men  and  archers  the  gardens  and  olive-yards  that 
environed  her.  The  first  care  of  the  Athenians  was  to 
restore  the  city,  after  a  desolation  more  complete  than 
even  that  with  which  Brennus  visited  Rome;  for 
the  banner  of  the  Gauls  never  waved  over  the  Capitol, 
whereas  the  wrath  of  Xerxes  was  poured  especially  on 
the  Athenian  Acropolis.  Nor  was  it  enough  to  rebuild 
the  walls:  it  was  necessary  to  protect  the  city  in  future 
from  enemies  near  at  hand;  from  the  never-friendly 
Thebans;  from  the  Dorians  of  Peloponnesus,  whose 
fears  and  jealousy  had  been  awakened  by  the  prowess, 
so  unlooked  for  by  them,  of  their  Ionian  ally.  The 
long  walls  had  to  be  constructed — the  harbors  of 
Munychium  and  Phalerus  connected  with  Peirseus, 
and  riveted  by  strong  links  to  Athens  itself.  Before 
such  works  could  be  finished,  there  can  have  been 
neither  means,  motives,  nor  leisure  for  embellishing 
the  capital  of  Attica.  Earlier  than  472  b.c.,  in  which 


10 


EURIPIDES. 


year  the  comm  on  treasury  of  the  Allies  was  trans¬ 
ferred  from  Delos  to  Athens,  Polycletus,  Phidias, 
Zeuxis,  and  their  compeers  can  hardly  have  been  em¬ 
ployed  on  their  immortal  labors.  The  new  Athens 
accordingly  grew  up  under  his  eyes,  and  that  at  a 
period  of  life  when  curiosity  is  most  alert,  and  memory 
most  tenacious.  It  was  his  privilege  to  watch  the 
growth  of  temple  and  hall,  colonnade  and  theatre, 
gymnasium  and  court  of  law,  which  the  people,  now  a 
sovereign  one,  demanded,  and  their  leaders  willingly 
supplied.  The  poet,  most  susceptible,  as  his  *plays 
often  show  him  to  have  been,  of  the  arts  allied  to 
his  own,  beheld  in  all  the  freshness  of  their  youth  the 
Painted  Porch,  adorned  by  Micon,  Polygnetus,  and 
Pantaenus,  with  cartoons  of  Athenian  triumphs  and 
heroes — the  ivory  and  gold  statue  of  Pallas  Athene,  the 
tutelary  goddess — the  Virgin’s  House,  the  Parthenon 
— the  Portico,  a  work  of  Mnesides — the  Propylaea, 
leading  up  to  “the  roof  and  crown”  of  Athens — the 
Acropolis — and  other  sacred  and  secular  monuments  for 
which  the  spoils  of  the  Persian  or  the  tribute  of  the 
Allies  furnished  means.  Nor  were  these  unrivalled 
works,  some  of  which  he  may  have  seen  on  the  easel  of 
Zeuxis  or  in  the  studio  of  Phidias,  the  only  features  of 
the  time  likely  to  nurture  his  imagination,  or  give  it  the 
bias  towards  an  expanding  future  so  apparent  in  his 
writings.  For  him  the  narrow  and  often  gloomy  re¬ 
gion  of  legends,  national  or  Achaean,  faded  before  the 
bright  and  picturesque  glories  of  the  hour.  In  his  time 
the  boundaries  of  the  Grecian  world  were  enlarged. 
Strangers,  attracted  to  the  new  centre  of  Hellas*  by 


*  “Hellas,” although  a  word  unknown  in  the  time  of  Euripi¬ 
des,  and  indeed  of  much  later  date,  is  used,  here  and  elsewhere. 


ATHENS  IN  The  DATs  ON  EuniPIDES.  11 

business  or  pleasure,  now  flocked  to  Athens  from 
iEgean  islands,  from  the  coasts  and  cities  of  Western 
Asia  and  the  Euxine,  from  the  Greek  colonies  of  Sicily, 
Cyrene,  and  Southern  Italy,  from  Massilia  on  the  Celtic 
border,  from  Tartessus  near  the  bourne  of  the  habitable 
world,  from  the  semi-barbarous  Cyprus,  and  from  the 
cradles  of  civilization,  Egypt  and  Phoenicia.  For  now 
was  there  room  in  Athens  for  all  cunning  workers  in 
marble  or  metal,  for  those  who  dealt  in  Tyrian  purple 
or  unguents  of  Smyrna,  or  brought  bars  of  silver  and 
golden  ingots  from  Iberian  mines;  room  also  for  ar¬ 
morers  and  dockyard  men  in  Athenian  ports,  where — 

“  Boiled 

Through  wintry  months  tenacious  pitch  to  smear 
Their  unsound  vessels;  when  the  inclement  time 
Seafaring  men  restrains,  and  in  that  while 
His  bark  one  builds  anew,  another  stops 
The  ribs  of  his  that  hath  made  many  a  voyage. 

One  hammers  at  the  prow,  one  at  the  poop; 

This  shapeth  oars,  that  other  cables  twirls, 

The  mizzen  one  repairs  and  mainsail  rent.” *  * 

Artists,  too,  who  wrought  neither  with  brush  nor 
chisel,  were  drawn  to  Athens  by  the  magnet  of  public 
or  private  demand — poets  eager  to  celebrate  her  glories, 
and  contend  for  lyric  or  dramatic  prizes;  philosophers 
no  less  eager  to  broach  new  theories  in  morals,  or  to 
teach  new  devices  in  rhetoric  and  logic.  It  was  a  new 
world  in  comparison  with  the  severe  and  simple  Mara- 
tlionian  time  in  which  JEschylus  was  trained;  and, 

in  these  pages,  as  a  convenient  and  comprehensive  term  for 
Greece  and  its  numerous  offsets  from  the  Euxine  Sea  to  the  Gulf 
of  Marseilles.  CC  l 

•  Dante,  “Divine  Comedy,”  Cant,  xxi.,  Cary’s  translation. 
The  poet  is  speakihg  of  Venice,  but  his  verses  are  applicable  to 
the  earlier  Queen  of  the  Seas. 


EURIPIDES. 


12 

like  most  new  worlds,  it  was  worse  in  some  things, 
better  in  others — removed  further  from  gods  and  god* 
like  heroes,  approaching  nearer  to  man,  his  sorrows  and 
joys;  less  awful  and  august,  more  humane  and  civilized. 
And  the  change  is  visible  in  the  worst  no  less  than  in 
the  best  plays  of  Euripides,  and  one  to  be  borne  in 
mind  by  all  who  would  judge  of  them  fairly. 

Pass  over  a  few  years  of  the  poet’s  life,  and  we  come 
to  a  period  when  this  .scene  of  political,  artistic,  and 
social  activity  is  at  first  clouded  over,  and  in  the  end 
rent  and  dislimned.  Among  other  effects  of  the  Pelo¬ 
ponnesian  war,  one  was,  that  a.  stop  was  put  to  public 
buildings  and  the  costly  arts  by  which  they  are  adorned: 
while  those  that,  like  the  Erectheium,  were  unfinished 
at  the  outbreak  of  that  war,  were*  left  incomplete.  But 
the  drama  did  not  suffer  with  other  branches  of  art. 
Sophocles,  Euripides,  and  a  numerous  band  of  competi¬ 
tors,  yearly  strove  for  the  crown,  and  the  decorations  ot 
the  stage  were  even  costlier  than  ever.  The  suspension 
of  public  works,  however,  was  a  trifle  in  comparison 
with  the  corruption  of  morals  at  Athens — an  effect  of 
the  war,  and  of  the  great  plague  especially,  which  there 
is  the  authority  of  Thucydides  for  stating.  But  our 
business  now  is  not  with  the  Athenian  people  so  much 
as  with  the  stage  in  the  time  of  Euripides,  particularly 
with  a  view  to  the  character  of  the  audience. 

Attica  was  a  lana  favorable  to  varieties  of  labor  and 
cultivation.  At  the  present  moment  its  light  and  dry 
soil  produces  little  corn;  but  want  of  capital  and  indus¬ 
try,  not  the  soil,  is  to  blame.  Cereals,  indeed,  were 
never  its  principal  produce,  though  small  and  well-tilled 
farms,  such  as  are  seen  in  Belgium  and  Lombardy, 
abounded.  Bather  was  it  a  land  of  olives  and  figs,  of 
vines  and  honey.  Sheep  and  goats,  particularly  the 


ATHENS  ffi  THE  EATS  OE  EtjMPlDES.  IB 


latter,  were  kept  in  large  flocks  on  the  mountain  slopes: 
even  sucli  delicacies  as  bams  of  bear  and  wild  boar 
were  not  inaccessible  to  the  hunter  on  Mount  Parnes. 
The  sea  swarmed  with  fish,  and  inexhaustible  Were  the 
marble  quarries  of  Mount  Pentelicus,  while  the  silver 
mines  of  Laurium  supplied  the  public  treasury  With  the 
purest  coinage  in  Greece.  These  various  products  of 
the  soil  furnished  its  occupiers  with  as  varied  occupa* 
tion.rv;  and  again  we  have  the  testimony  of  Thucydides, 
that  Athenians  in  general  were  fond  of  country  pursuits, 
and  before  the  Peloponnesian  war  preferred  their  fields, 
villages,  and  small  towns  to  the  attractions  of  the  city. 
The  statement  of  the  historian  is  confirmed  by  the  great 
comic  poet  of  the  time.  Aristophanes,  with  a  whole* 
some  hatred  of  unjust  and  unnecessary  wars,  frequently 
sets  before  the  spectators  how  much  the  worse  they 
were  for  dwelling  within  walls,  and  for  leaving  their 
oliveyards  and  vineyards,  their  meadows  and  cornland, 
where  informers  ceased  from  troubling,  and  booted  and 
bearded  soldiers  were  at  rest. 

The  enforced  removal  of  the  country  population  into 
the  capital  can  hardly  have  failed  to  produce  a  change, 
and  that  not  a  salutary  one,  in  the  character  of  the 
Athenians,  even  if  the  pestilence  had  not  sapped  the 
foundations  of  morals  by  loosening  domestic  ties,  by 
rendering  the  sick  and  even  the  strong  reckless  of  the 
morrow,  and  thousands  at  once  irreligious  and  super¬ 
stitious.  Such  levity  and  despair  as  were  exhibited  by 
the  Parisians  under  the  Reign  of  Terror,  prevailed  in 
Athens  during  the  worst  days  of  the  plague.  Even 
the  general  breaking  up  of  homes,  and  the  want  of 
customary  occupations,  had  evil  results  for  the  peasant 
turned  townsman.  For  some  hundreds  of  farmers  and 
laborers  the  small  towns  and  hill-forts  of  the  country 


14 


EURIPIDES. 


may  have  afforded  shelter  during  the  almost  yearly 
inroads  of  the  Peloponnesian  host;  yet  the  bulk  of 
the  rural  population  was  compelled  to  move,  with  such 
goods  and  chattels  as  were  portable,  into  the  narrow 
space  of  the  city — the  Long  Walls  or  the  harbors; 
where,  if  they  did  not  suffer  from  want  of  food,  they 
were  indifferently  lodged.  War  is  ever  “work  of  waste 
and  ruin.”  If  the  land  were  tilled  at  all,  the  green 
corn  was  taken  by  the  enemy  for  horse-fodder;  fruit- 
trees  were  cut  down  for  fuel  or  fencing  of  camps; 
villages  and  homesteads,  when  no  longer  wanted  by 
the  Dorian  invader,  were  wantonly  destroyed.  In 
place  of  the  rich  tillage,  woodland,  or  pasturage  which 
greeted  the  eyes  of  spectators  from  the  walls  or  the 
citadel,  there  presented  itself  a  wide  and  various  scene 
of  desolation.  All  that  an  Athenian,  during  many 
weeks  in  the  year,  could  call  his  own  was  the  sea.  He 
yearned  for  his  bee-hives,  his  garden,  his  oil-vats  and 
wine-press,  his  fig-trees,  his  sheep  and  kine.  A  sorry 
exchange  was  it  for  him,  his  wife  and  children!  Even 
his  recreations  were  lost  to  him.  He  missed  the  chat 
of  the  market-place  and  the  rural  holiday.  The  city 
fountains  did  not  compensate  to  him  for  the  clear  stream 
he  had  left  behind;  and  his  imprisonment  was  the 
more  irksome  because  the  hated  Dorian  was  trampling 
on  the  graves  of  his  kindred.  Small  comfort  to  him 
w7as  such  employment  as  the  city  supplied  or  demanded 
of  him.  Hard-handed  ploughmen  or  vine-dressers  were 
made  to  stand  sentinels  on  the  walls,  or  clapped  on  board 
a  ship  of  war;  or  they  sweltered  in  the  law  courts  as 
jurymen,  or  listened  ignorantly  or  apathetically  to 
brawling  orators  in  the  assembly.  He  who,  until  that 
annual  flight  of  locusts  came  to  plague  the  land,  had 
been  a  busy  man  wras  mnv  often  an  idle  one;  and 


ATHENS  IN  TEE  DAYS  OF  EURIPIDES.  15 


•weary  is  a  life  of  enforced  leisure.  Possibly  also  be 
and  the  town-bred  Athenians  may  not  always  have  been 
on  the  best  terms.  Great  mockers,  unless  they  are  much 
belied,  were  those  town-folks.  His  clouted  shoon  and 
ill-fitting  tunic  may  have  cost  the  peasant,  or  even  the 
country  gentleman,  uncomfortable  hours,  and  perhaps 
led  him  to  break  the  heads  of  city  wits,  or  to  get  his 
own  head  broken  by  them.  Town  amusements  were 
never  much  to  his  liking.  The  music,  vocal  and  instru¬ 
mental,  which  he  would  hear  at  the  Odeum — the 
Athenian  opera-house — might  be  all  very  fine;  but,  for 
his  part,  give  him  the  pipe  and  tabor,  the  ballads  and 
miustrels,  of  his  deserted  village.  Then  as  to  the  play¬ 
house:  the  performances  there  were  not  to  his  taste. 
A  farce  at  a  wake,  acted  on  boards  and  trestles,  a  well- 
known  hymn  sung  to  the  rural  deities,  pleased  him  far 
more  than  comedies  of  which  he  did  not  catch  the  drift, 
or  tragedies  that  scared  him  by  their  furies  and  ghosts, 
and  perhaps  gave  him  bad  dreams.  The  sudden  in¬ 
fusion  of  a  new  element  into  the  mass  of  a  people  can¬ 
not  fail  to  affect  it  materially,  whether  for  good  or  ill; 
and  such  a  wholesale  migration  as  this  reacted  on  the 
townsmen  themselves.  Some  civic  virtues  they  might 
easily  exchange  for  some  rural  vices.  Cooped  as  the 
Athenians,  urban  and  rustic,  were  within  the  walls, 
ill-housed,  and  often  idle,  with  few,  if  any,  sanitary  or 
police  regulations,  we  need  not  history  to  inform  us 
that  Athens  came  forth  from  the  pestilence  the  worse 
in  some  respects  for  its  visitation. 

And  besides  these  changes  from  without,  others  of  a 
less  palpable  but  more  subtle  kind  were,  in  the  age  of 
Euripides,  affecting  the  national  character,  and  with  it 
also  the  spirit,  and  in  a  measure  -the.  _f  ormr-  of  the 
national  drama.  “It  was  a  period  of  great  intellectual 


16 


EURIPIDES . 


activity;  and  the  simple  course  of  education  under 
which  the  conquerors  of  Salamis  and  Marathon  had 
been  reared  no  longer  satisfied  the  wants  of  the  noble, 
wealthy,  and  aspiring  part  of  the  Athenian  youth. 
Their  learning  had  not  gone  beyond  the  rudiments  of 
music,  and  such  a  knowledge  of  their  own  language  as 
enabled  them  to  enjoy  the  works  of  their  writers,  and 
to  express  their  own  thoughts  with  ease  and  propriety; 
and  they  bestowed  at  least  as  much  care  on  the  train¬ 
ing  of  the  body  as  on  the  cultivation  of  the  mind. 
But  in  the  next  generation  the  speculations  of  the 
Ionian  and  Eleatic  schools  began  to  attract  attention 
at  Athens:  the  presence  of  several  celebrated  philoso¬ 
phers,  and  the  example  of  Pericles,  made  them  familiar 
to  a  gradually  widening  circle;  and  they  furnished 
occasion  for  the  discussion  of  a  variety  of  questions 
intimately  connected  with  subjects  of  the  highest 
practical  moment.’'  *  The  latter  half  of  Euripides’s  life 
was  passed,  as  we  may  judge  even  from  the  sober 
Xenophon,  as  well  as  from  the  witty  Aristophanes, 
among  a  generation  of  remarkable  loquacity,  in  which 
the  young  aspired  to  know  a  little  of  every  subject, 
thought  themselves  fit  to  hold  the  state-rudder,  and 
justified  in  looking  down  upon  their  less  learned  or 
more  modest  elders.  Every  young  man,  indeed,  who 
aspired  to  become  a  statesman  must  be  an  adept  in 
rhetorical  arts,  since  no  one  could  pretend  to  pilot  the 
ship  who  could  not  persuade,  or  at  least  cajole,  his 
fellow-citizens.  If,  on  the  other  hand,  he  wished  to  be 
a  public  lecturer — that  is  to  say,  a  philosopher — plain 
Pythagorean  rules  for  the  conduct  of  life,  or  Solon’s 
elegiac  maxims,  no  longer  sufficed.  Such  old  truisms 


*  Bishop  Thirlwall’s  Hist,  of  Greece,  iv.  268. 


ATHENS  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  EURIPIDES.  17 


would  not  bring  him  a  single  pupil  or  hearer.  He 
must  be  able,  and  was  always  ready,  to  probe  the  very 
foundations  of  truth  and  law;  to  argue  on  any  subject; 
to  change  his  opinions  as  often  as  it  suited  himself— in 
short,  to  be  supreme  in  talk,  however  shallow  he  might 
be  in  knowledge.  To  what  extent  Euripides  fell  in 
with  the  new  philosophy  will  be  considered  in  another 
chapter. 

Let,  not,  however,  the  English  reader  suppose  that 
young  Athens  had  it  all  its* own  way;  that  the  ancient 
spirit  was  quite  dead;  or  that  philosophy  was  merely 
a  game  of  riddles,  and  ethics  little  better  than  the 
discovery  that  there  is  “  neither  transgression  nor  sin.’’ 
Had  it  been  so,  Plato,  in  the  next  generation,  would 
have  addressed  empty  benches  in  his  Academy,  and, 
at  a  still  later  period,  Demosthenes  have  failed  to 
inspire  his  hearers  with  either  that  deliberate  valor  or 
that  spirit  of  self-sacrifice  which  they  displayed  in 
their  struggles  with  “the  man  of  Macedon.”  In  spite 
of  some  grave  defects  or  some  superficial  blemishes, 
the  Athens  that  crowned  or  refused  to  crown  Euri¬ 
pides  was  the  home  of  a  noble  and  generous  people, 
easily  led  astray,  but  still  willing  to  return  to  the 
right  path;  not  impatient  of  reproof,  and  sincere,  if 
somewhat  sudden,  in  its  repentance.  Her  citizens 
were  a  strange  mixture  of  refinement  and  coarseness, 
of  intelligence  and  ignorance.  For  intellect  and  taste, 
no  city,  ancient  or  modern,  has  ever  made  for  its 
members  so  varied  and  sumptuous  a  provision  as 
she  afforded  to  her  children,  her  friends,  and  the 
stranger  within  Her  gates.  In  the  days  of  Euripides,  a 
resident  in  Athens  might  in  one  week  assist  at  a  solemn 
religious  festival;  at  the  performance  of  plays  that  for 
more  than  two  thousand  years  were  unsurpassed ;  might 


18 


EURIPIDES. 


listen  in  the  Odeum  to  music  worthy  of  the  verse  to 
which  it  was  wedded;  might  watch  in  the  Great  Harbor 
the  war-galleys  making  ready  for  the  next  foray  on  the 
Lacedaemonian  coast,  or  the  heavy-armed  infantry  train¬ 
ing  for  their  next  encounter  with.  Spartan  or  Theban 
phalanx.  In  the  intervals  of  these  mimic  or  serious 
spectacles,  he  could  study  the  works  of  the  most  con¬ 
summate  artists  the  earth  has  ever  produced;  gaze  in 
the  gymnasium  on  living  beauty,  grace,  and  strength; 
or,  if  meditatively  given,  could  hear  Prodicus  and  Pro¬ 
tagoras  in  their  lecture-rooms,  or  Socrates  in  the  market¬ 
place,  discoursing  upon  “divine  philosophy.”  If  he 
were  in  any  way  remarkable  for  worth  or  ability,  the 
saloons  of  Pericles,  Nicias,  or  Glaucon  were  not  closed 
against  him  by  any  idle  ceremonies  of  good  introduc¬ 
tions,  fine  clothes,  or  long  pedigrees.  Athens,  it  is  well 
said  by  Milton,  was  “native  or  hospitable  to  famous 
wits.”  Aud  though  he  had  not  “three  white  luces  on 
his  coat,”  nor  any  coat  of  arms  at  all,  lie  was  “a  gentle¬ 
man  born.”  His  heraldry  was  the  belief  that  before  a 
Dorian  set  foot  in  Peloponnesus,  or  a  tribe  of  Persian 
mountaineers  had  vanquished  the  Assyrian  or  the  Mede, 
his  forefathers  had  established  themselves  in  Attica,  and 
taken  part  in  the  Trojan  war.  All  other  Greek  com¬ 
munities,  with  the  single  exception  of  the  Arcadians 
and  Achaeans — poor  bucolical  folks  then,  but  destined 
a  century  later  to  hold  a  prominent  place  in  Greece — 
were  in  comparison  with  the  Athenian  the  creatures  of 
yesterday.  One  Attic  king  had  been  the  friend  of  Her¬ 
cules,  and  so  was  coeval  with  the  Argonauts:  and  even 
Theseus  had  his  royal  predecessors.  And  if  the  Athe¬ 
nian  studied  the  national  chronicles,  or  listened  by  the 
winter  fireside  to  the  stories  of  old  times,  he  did  not 
blush  for  his  progenitors.  They  had  ever  been  redress- 


ATHENS  IN  THE  DATS  OE  EURIPIDES.  1$ 


ers  of  wrongs,  harborers  of  the  exile,  hospitable  to  the 
stranger;  and  their  virtues  supplied  Euripides  with 
themes  for  several  of  his  plays. 

The  poet,  who  had  watched  the  growth  of  his  native 
city,  witnessed  also  the  rapid  extension  of  its  empire. 
When  Euripides  was  in  his  boyhood,  Athens  was  but 
a  secondary  power  in  Hellas:  inferior  to  Corinth  in 
wealth  aud  commercial  enterprise;  to  Sparta  in  war  and 
the  number  of  its  allies.  In  his  twenty- sixth  year — the 
year  in  which  lie  exhibited  his  first  play — Athens  had 
become  the  head  of  a  league  far  more  powerful  than  the 
confederacy  which  the  ‘‘king  of  men”  led  to  the  siege 
of  Troy.  She  stepped  into  the  place  which  the  proud, 
selfish,  and  custom-bound  Spartan  had  abandoned.  An 
active  democracy  eclipsed  a  sullen  and  ceremonious 
oligarchy;  and  although  the  Dorian  in  the  end  pre¬ 
vailed,  it  was  partly  owing  to  Persian  gold  that  he  did 
so,  and  partly  because  the  Ionian  city  had  squandered 
her  strength,  as  France  so  often  has  done,  in  unjustifia¬ 
ble  and  prodigal  wars.  At  all  times,  and  especially 
while  the  “breed  of  noble  blood ’’flowed  in  her  veins — 
while  to  be  just  as  Aristides,  chivalrous  as  Cimon,  tem¬ 
perate  in  the  execution  of  high  office  as  Pericles,  con¬ 
tinued  to  be  accounted  virtues — Athens  held,  and  de¬ 
served  to  hold,  her  supremacy.  Proud,  and  justly  so, 
were  her  sons  of  their  beautiful  city.  The  tribute  paid 
to  her  by  the  allies  for  protecting  them  from  the  Persian 
was  fairly  expended  upon  the  maintenance  of  the  fleet 
and  the  encouragement  of  art.  Her  citizens  were,  and 
felt  themselves  to  be,  in  the  van  of  Greek  cultivation. 
They  hailed  with  applause  the  praises  addressed  to  them 
by  the  dramatic  poets — and  the  praises  were  no  idle 
flattery.  Was  it  not  a  truth  that,  had  it  not  been  for 
the  Athenians,  northern  Greece  would  have  given  earth 


16 


EURIPIDES. 


and  water  to  the  Persian  envoys,  and  Peioponhestts 
have  selfishly  abandoned  the  sea  to  the  Phoenician  gal¬ 
leys?  True,  also,  that,  but  for  the  Athenians,  “dusk 
faces  with  white  silken  turbans  wreathed  "  might  have 
been  seen  in  the  citadels  of  Corinth  and  Thebes?  Of  a 
city  that  had  so  well  deserved  of  every  state,  insular  or 
on  the  mainland,  where  Greek  was  spoken,  the  most 
appropriate  ornaments  were  the  triumphs  of  the  artist. 
Rightfully  proud  were  the  Athenians  of  their  beautiful 
city ;  as  rightfully  employed  were  the  pens  of  poets  in 
giving  these  monuments  perpetual  fame. 

With  history,  direct  or  indirect,  before  us,  it  may 
be  possible  to  describe,  or  at  least  divine,  the  spectacle 
presented  at  the  Dionysiac  theatre  when  Sophocles 
or  Euripides  brought  out  a  new  play.  The  audience 
consisted  of  nearly  as  many  elements  as,  centuries 
later,  were  to  crowd  and  elbow  one  another  in  the  vast 
space  of  the  Roman  Colpsseum.  The  lowest  and  best 
seats,  those  nearest  the  orchestra,  were  reserved  for 
men  of  mark  and  dignity,  for  the  judges  who  would 
award  the  prizes,  for  sage,  grave  members  of  the  Areo¬ 
pagus,  for  archons  in  office,  or  for  those  who  had 
already  held  office,  for  soldiers  “  famoused  in  fight/’  for 
ambassadors  from  Greek  or  foreign  lands,  for  all  who 
had  some  claim  to  precedence  from  their  rank  or  their 
services  to  the  commonwealth.  Women  were  admitted 
to  the  tragedies  at  least,  boys  as  well  as  men  to  all  per¬ 
formances;  even  slaves  were  permitted  to  be  present. 
The  women,  by  Greek  usage  secluded  at  home,  were 
probably  assigned  a  particular  apartment  in  the  play¬ 
house;  the  boys  were  perhaps  of  use,  as  often  an 
unpopular  competitor  for  the  crown  tried  his  fortune 
once  more;  and  possibly  Euripides  may  have  occa* 
sionally  regretted  the  presence  of  these  youthful  censors, 


Athens  in  The  hays  of  euhipibes.  §1 


No  registered  citizen  could  plead  poverty  as  a  reason 
for  not  witnessing  these  theatrical  contests;  if  he  had 
not  money  in  his  purse,  the  state  paid  for  his  ticket 
of  admission.  To  foreigners  Were  commonly  allotted 
the  back  seats;  but  so  many  ■mechanical  devices  were 
employed  for  the  conveyance  of  sound,  that  unless  a 
sitter  in  the  gallery  were  hard  of  hearing,  he  could 
probably  catch  every  line  of  the  choral  chant  or  the 
recitative  of  the  dialogue.  Nor  might  short-sighted 
people  be  quite  forlorn;  he  was  pitiable  indeed  who 
could  not  discern,  vast  as  was  the  space  between  him¬ 
self  and  the  stage,  the  colossal  actors  mounted  on  their 
high  boots,  and  raised  by  their  tall  head  dress  above 
ordinary  mortal  stature.  A  purblind  stranger  might 
perchance  regret  that  he  could  not  distinguish  in  the 
stalls  bald-headed  Nicias  from  the  long-haired  Alci- 
biades  ;  and  that  although  Socrates  was  certainly  in 
the  house  he  could  not  identify  him  among  a  batch 
of  ugly  fellows,  with  whom,  he  was  told,  the  celebrated 
street-preacher  was  sitting. 

The  gallery  in  which  foreigners  sat  is  perhaps  the 
most  interesting  feature  of  the  audience  to  EngbrTt 
readers — interesting,  because  it  represented  the  various 
members  of  the  Athenian  empire,  as  well  as  of  the 
Hellenic  race.  A  merchant  whose  warehouse  was 
near  the  Pillars  of  Hercules  would  And  himself  seated 
beside  one  who  had  brought  a  cargo  of  wheat  from 
Sinope,  on  the  Euxine  Sea.  A  hybrid — half-Greek,  - 
half-Egyptian— of  Canopus  would  have  on  his  right 
hand  a  tent-maker  from  Tarsus,  on  his  left  a  Thessalian 
bullock-drover.  The  “broad  Scotch”  of  the  Greeks — 
the  Dorian  patois — would  be  spoken  by  a  group  of 
spectators  in  front  of  him;  while  a  softer  dialect  than 
even  the  Attic,  pure  Ionic,  was  used  by  a  party  of 


22  EURIPIDES. 

islanders  behind  him.  “What  gorgeously  -  attired 
personage  is  (hat  on  your  left?”  “  A  Tyrian  merchant, 
rich  enough  to  buy  up  any  street  in  Athens — a  prince 
iu  his  own  city,  a  suitor  here.  He  has  come  on  law 
business  ;  and  although  at  home  he  struts  like  any 
peacock,  here  he  is  obliged  to  salute  any  ragged  rascal 
in  the  streets  who  may  be  a  juror  when  his  cause  is  heard. 
To  my  certain  knowledge,  the  great  emerald  column  in 
the  temple  of  Melcarth,  at  Tyre,  is  mortgaged  to  him.” 
And  who  is  that  queerly-dressed  man  a  little  beyond 
the  Tyrian?  By  his  garb  and  short  petticoat  I  should 
take  him  for  a  Scythian  policeman,*  but  he  has  not  the 
yellow  hair  and  blue  eyes  of  those  gentry.”  “That, 
sir,  is  a  Gaul  from  Massilia  ;  he  is  on  his  road  to 
Bithynia,  where  the  satrap  Pharnabazus,  I  think  his 
name  is,  is  offering  good  pay  to  western  soldiers — and 
where  there  is  gold  there  also  is  sure  to  be  a  Gaul. 
The  fellow  speaks  Greek  fairly  well,  for  he  was  for 
some  time  in  a  Massilian  counting-house,  his  mother 
being  a  Greek  woman.”  We  should  tire  our  readers’ 
patience  long  before  we  exhausted  the  portraits  of 
sitters  in  the  strangers’  gallery  in  the  Dionysiac  theatre; 
and  it  is  only  due  to  the  Athenian  portion  of  the 
audionce  to  turn  for  a  few  moments  to  them. 

Samuel  Johnson  could  not  conceive  there  could  be 
“livers  out  of  ”  London;  or  that  a  people  ignorant  of 
printing  could  be  other  than  barbarous.  Had  he 
been  as  well  acquainted  with  Greek  as  he  was  with 
some  portions  of  Latin  literature,  he  might  have  found 
cause  for  altering  his  opinion.  The  Athenians  were 
not  in  general  book-learned,  but  such  knowledge  as 
can  be  obtained  by  the  eye  and  the  ear  they  possessed 


*  Scythian  bowmen  were  the  gendarmes  of  Athens. 


ATHENS  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  EURIPIDES.  23 


abundantly;  and  the  thirty  thousand  registered  citizens, 
to  say  nothing  of  resident  aliens,  were  better  informed 
than  an  equal  number  of  average  Londoners  are  at 
the  present  time.  In  the  rows  of  the  theatre,  as  on 
the  benches  of  the  Pnyx,*  might  be  seen  men  who, 
if  judged  by  their  apparel,  would  have  been  set 
down  for  paupers,  if  not  street  Arabs;  and  yet  these 
shabby  folk  were  able  to  correct  orators  who  mis¬ 
pronounced  a  word,  singers  when  out  of  tune,  and 
actors  who  tripped  in  their  delivery  of  dialogue. 
Their  moral  sense,  indeed,  was  not  on  a  level  with 
their  taste  and  shrewd  understanding;  yet  we  shall 
have  to  record  more  than  one  instance  of  their  calling 
Euripides  to  account  for  opinions  which  they  deemed 
unwholesome,  or  for  innovations  which  they  regarded 
as  needless  departures  from  established  custom.  It 
may  be  doubted  whether  they  were  a  very  patient 
audience.  They  seem  to  have  had  little  scruple  in 
expressing  their  approbation  or  disapprobation,  as 
■well  of  the  poet  as  the  actor;  and  their  mode  of  doing 
so  was  sometimes  very  rough,  inasmuch  as,  besides 
hissing  and  hooting  at  them  strenuously,  they  pelted 
bad  or  unpopular  actors  with  stones. 

The  varied  appearance  of  the  spectators  on  the 
higher  benches  did  not  extend  to  the  lower  ones, 
which  the  citizens  proper  occupied.  Fops  and  dandies 
there  were  in  the  wealthy  classes,  and  especially  among 
the  immediate  followers  of  Alcibiades,  or  those  who 
aped  their  extravagances.  But  generally  no  democrat 
brooked  in  a  brother  democrat  display  or  singularity. 


*  The  Pnyx  was  the  place  where  the  people  of  Athene 
assembled  to  hear  political  debates— in  fact,  their  House  of 
Parliament. 


24 


EURIPIDES. 


A  house  better  than  ordinary,  or  fine  raiment,  were 
considered  marks  of  an  oligarchic  disposition;  and 
the  owner  of  such  gauds,  if  he  aspired  to  public 
office,  was  pretty  sure  to  have  them  cast  in  his  teeth 
at  the  hustings.  But  sobriety  in  raiment,  in  dwell¬ 
ing,  or  equipage  did  not  abate  the  vivacious  spirit  of 
the  Ionians  of  the  west.  When  offended  or  wearied 
by  a  play,  they  employed  all  the  artillery  of  dis¬ 
pleasure  against  the  spectators  as  well  as  the  per¬ 
formers.  Sometimes  an  unpopular  citizen  attracted 
notice;  and  then  the  wit  at  his  expense  flowed  fast 
and  furious,  as  it  occasionally  does  now  from  a  Dublin 
gallery.  Were  there  a  hole  in  his  coat,  it  was  likely 
to  be  mentioned  with  “additional  particulars:”  if  he 
had  ever  gone  through  the  bankruptcy  court,  it  was 
not  forgotten:  swindling  or  perjury  were  joyfully 
commemorated :  still  more  so  any  current  rumors 
about  poisoning  a  wife,  a  rich  uncle,  troublesome  step¬ 
sons,  wards,  motliers-in-law,  and  other  family  incon¬ 
veniences. 

Such  were  the  audiences  who  sat  in  judgment  on 
the  great  drama  of  the  ancient  world.  It  may  be 
probably  conjectured  that  Euripides  found  more  favor 
with  the  resident  aliens  and  the  visitors  from  foreign 
parts  than  with  the  born  citizens.  To  these,  his  some¬ 
what  arbitrary  treatment  of  old  legends — his  familiar 
dealing  with,  or  perhaps  humanizing  of,  the  Hellenic 
deities,  his  softening  of  the  terrors  of  destiny,  his 
modification  of  the  songs  and  functions  of  the  Chorus, 
and  other  deviations  from  the  ancient  severity  of 
dramatic  art— would  give  little,  if  any,  offence.  For 
such  spectators  the  dooms  hanging  over  Argvie  or 
Theban  royal  houses  would  have  but  little  interest. 
Their  forefathers  had  taken  no  part  in  the  quarrel 


ATHENS  IN  THE  HATS  OF  EUHIPIDES.  25 


between  Eteocles  and  Polynices,  cared  little  for  the 
authority  of  the  Areopagus,  had  local  deities  and 
myths  of  their  own,  among  whom  were  not  reckoned 
Pallas  Athene,  Apollo,  or  the  Virgin  Huntress.  To 
the  foreigner,  that  triumphal  song,  the  “Persians” 
of  uEscliylus,  and  his  “Prometheus,”  were  perhaps 
more  welcome  than  his  Orestean  trilogy.  The  fables  of 
these  plays  were  common  and  catholic  to  the  whole 
Hellenic  world.  The  friend  and  protector  of  mankind, 
the  long-suffering  Titan,  touched  chords  in  the  heart  of 
a  Greek  spectator,  whether  he  drank  the  water  of  the 
Meander  or  that  of  the  fountain  of  Arethusa.  The 
flight  of  Xerxes  and  the  humiliation  of  the  Mede  were 
the  story  of  his  own  deliverance  from  the  dread  or  op¬ 
pression  of  the  great  king.  Even  the  tragi  comedy  of  - 
Euripides  might  be  more  agreeable  to  him  than  the 
sombre  grandeur  of  jEschylus,  or  the  serene  and  perfect 
art  of  Sophocles. 

But  to  the  purely  Athenian  portion  the  innovations 
of  Euripides  were  less  acceptable.  If  we  are  to  judge 
by  the  number  of  prizes  he  gained,  at  no  period  of  his 
career  was  he  so  popular  as  Sophocles.  He  was  rather 
a  favorite  with  a  party  than  with  the  Athenian  public. 

In  some  respects  the  restless  democracy  was  very  con¬ 
servative  in  its  taste.  The  deeds  of  its  forefathers  it  as¬ 
sociated  with  Achaean  legends:  the  gods  of  the  common¬ 
wealth,  although  it  laughed  heartily  at  them  when 
travestied  by  the  comic  poets,  still  were  held  to  be  the 
rightful  tenants  of  Olympus;  whereas  the  Euripidean 
deities  were  either  ordinary  men  and  women,  or  “airy 
nothings,”  without  any  “  local  habitation.”  Marriage- 
vows,  again,  were  not  very  strictly  kept  by  Athenian 
husbands,  yet  they  did  not  approve  of  questionable 
connections,  and  thought  that  Euripides  abused  poetic 


26 


EURIPIDES. 


license  when  he  made  use  of  them  in  his  dramas. 
Moreover,  there  may  have  been  something  in  his  habits 
unpalatable  to  them:  he  lived  apart;  conversed  with  few; 
cared  not  for  news;  held  strange  opinions,  as  will  be 
seen  presently,  about  women  and  slaves,  wits  and  poli¬ 
ticians;  was  no  “masker  or  reveller;”  and,  in  short, 
took  no  pains  to  make  himself  publicly  or  privately 
agreeable.  Englishmen  are  devout  worshippers  of  pub¬ 
lic  opinion,  as  it  is  conveyed  through  the  press.  Athe¬ 
nians,  without  a  press,  were  quite  as  subservient  to  their 
leaders  in  opinion.  They  liked  not  eccentricity,  or  even 
the  show  of  pride.  In  a  few  cases,  indeed,  they  con¬ 
doned  apparent  neglect:  Pericles,  who  rarely  went 
among  them  unless  weighty  matters  were  in  hand,  they 
*  pardoned  for  his  good  services  to  democracy;  the  grave 
and  tristful  visage  of  Demosthenes,  who  was  rarely  seen 
to  smile,  they  overlooked  in  consideration  of  liis  stir¬ 
ring  appeals  to  their  patriotic  feelings;  but  they  could 
not  pardon  a  man  who  sought  fame,  if  not  money,  by 
his  plays,  for  being  uncivil  to  play -goers.  And  little 
civility  they  got  from  him,  beyond  a  few  compliments 
to  their  sires  or  their  city. 

A  very  heterogeneous  mass  were  these  unofficial 
judges  of  dramatic  poets.  Between  twenty  and  thirty 
thousand  spectators  could  be  assembled  in  the  theatre  of 
Bacchus.  Beyond  the  seats  occupied  by  privileged 
persons,  and  below  those  allotted  to  strangers,  sat  the 
sovereign  people,  The  war  party  and  the  peace  party 
were  not  separated  by  barriers.  Aristophanes  might 
be  next  to  Lamachus,  and  the  tanner  Anytus  next  to 
barefooted  Socrates.  Government  contractors,  enriched 
by  the  war,  were  mixed  up  with  farmers  who  were 
ruined  by  it.  The  man  who  could  calculate  an  eclipse 
was  wedged  in  with  people  who  thought  that  the  sun  or 


ATHENS  IN  THE  DATS  OF  EURIPIDES.  27 


moon  when  obscured  was  bewitched;  Strepsiades’s 
pleasure  might  be  spoiled  by  the  near  neighborhood  of 
his  creditors;  and  Euelpides,  who  dropped  on  his  knees 
on  seeing  a  kite,  be  close  to  Diagoras  the  Melian,  who 
knelt  not  even  to  Jupiter. 

The  social,  intellectual,  and  perhaps  also  the  moral 
changes,  which  affected  Athenians  during  the  long  life 
of  Euripides,  may  be  partly  gathered  from  the  Greek 
orators,  as  well  as  from  the  satirical  comedians.  Isoc¬ 
rates,  referring  to  “the  good  old  times” — often,  as  re. 
spects  superior  virtue  or  wisdom,  a  counterpart  of  the 
“oldest  inhabitant” — and  comparing  his  own  genera¬ 
tion  with  that  of  Marathon  and  Salamis,  points  out  the 
causes  of  backsliding.  “Then,”  says  the  orator,  “our 
young  men  did  not  waste  their  days  in  the  gambling- 
house,  nor  with  music  girls,  nor  in  the  assemblies,  in 
which  whole  days  are  now  consumed.  Then  did  they 
shun  the  Agora,  or  if  they  passed  through  its  haunts, 
it  was  with  modest  and  timorous  forbearance;  then  to 
contradict  an  elder  was  a  greater  offence  than  nowadays 
to  offend  a  parent;  then  not  even  a  servant  would  have 
been  seen  to  eat  or  drink  within  a  tavern.”  It  was  this 
golden  or  this  dreamland  age  for  which  Aristophanes 
sighs  in  his  comedy  of  “  The  Clouds,”  deploring  the  de¬ 
generacy  of  the  young  men  in  his  time,  when  sophists 
were  in  the  room  of  statesmen,  and  the  gymnasium  was 
empty,  and  the  law  courts  were  filled.  Into  the  mouth 
of  old  Athens,  addressing  the  young  one,  are  put  the 
following  verses: 

“  Oh  listen  to  me,  and  so  shall  you  be  stout-hearted  and  fresh  as 
a  daisy; 

Not  ready  to  chatter  on  every  matter,  nor  bent  over  books  till 
you’re  hazy: 

No  splitter  of  straws,  no  dab  at  the  laws,  making  black  seeip 
White  so  cunning; 


28 


EURIPIDES. 


But  wandering  down  outside  the  town,  and  over  the  green 
meadow  running, 

Ride,  wrestle,  and  play  with  your  fellows  so  gay,  like  so  many 
birds  of  a  feather. 

All  breathing  of  youth,  good-humor,  and  truth,  in  the  time  of 
the  jolly  spring-weather. 

In  the  jolly  spring-time,  when  the  poplar  and  lime  dishevel  their 
tresses  together.”  * 

Such  were  Athens,  its  people,  and  its  theatre,  when 
Euripides  was  boy  and  man :  we  now  proceed  to  in¬ 
quire  what  manner  of  person  he  was  himself. 


CHAPTER  II. 

LIFE  OF  EURIPIDES. 

“  How  about  Euripides? 

He  that  was  born  upon  the  battle-day: 

Might  you  know  any  of  his  verses  too?” 

— Browning:  “ Balaustion’s  Adventure.” 

The  received  date  of  the  birth  of  Euripides  is  the 
year  480  b.c.  He  was  accordingly  forty-five  years  ju¬ 
nior  to  JSschylus,  and  fifteen  years  younger  than  Sopho¬ 
cles.  This  difference  in  their  respective  ages  is  not  un¬ 
important  as  regards  their  very  different  views  of 
dramatic  art.  His  birthplace  was  the  island  of  Salamis, 
where  his  mother,  with  other  Athenian  women,  and 
with  men  too  old,  or  children  too  young,  for  the  defence 
of  their  native  city,  was  taking  refuge,  and  he  came 
into  the  world  on  the  day  of  the  great  sea-fight  that  has 


*  The  extract  from  the  Areopagitic  oration  of  Isocrates  is  taken 
from  Bulwer’s  “  Athens— its  Rise  and  Fall,”  vol.  ii.  ch.  5,  p.  577; 
the  translation  of  Aristophanes  from  a  most  wise  and  beautiful 
little  book,  entitled  “  Euphranor,  a  Dialogue  on  Youth”  (1851), 


LIFE  OF  EURIPIDES, 


29 


immortalized  its- name.  Of  his  father  Mnesarchus  little 
is  known;  but  it  may  be  supposed  he  was  a  person  of 
good  station  and  property,  since  he  could  afford  his  son 
a  liberal  and  expensive  education,  such  as  at  that  time 
was  within  reach  of  only  wealthy  families.  His  mother 
Clito,  thanks  to  the  poet’s  enemies,  is  better  known  to 
us.  Probably  she  was  not  of  the  same  social  grade  as 
her  husband;  a  “metic”  perhaps,  or  half-caste,  with 
pure  Athenian  blood  on  one  side  only.  But  that  Clito 
was  ever  a  herb-woman,  kept  a  greengrocer’s  stall,  or 
hawked  fruit  and  flowers  about  the  streets,  is  doubtless 
a  tale  devised  by  her  son’s  ill-wishers.  Demosthenes, 
the  orator’s  father,  was  a  master-cutler,  and,  as  his  son’s 
suit  against  his  knavish  guardians  shows,  drove  a  brisk 
trade  in  swords,  spearheads,  knives,  and  shears;  but  it 
does  not  therefore  follow  that  either  the  orator  or  his 
sire  hammered  on  the  anvil  or  blew  the  bellows  them¬ 
selves.*  In  democratic  Athens  there  was  at  all  times  a 
prejudice  in  favor  of  high  birth,  and  one  of  the  most 
effective  arrows  in  Demosthenes’s  quiver  against  H3s- 
chines  was,  that  his  rival  had  once  been  a  player,  that 
his  father  was  a  low  fellow,  and  his  mother  a  dancer,  a 
fortune-teller,  and  an  altogether  disreputable  person. 
Clito  and  her  husband  very  possibly  owned  some  gar¬ 
den-ground  near  Athens,  and  its  produce  may  have  for 
a  time  supplied  a  convenient  addition  to  their  income. 
The  Persians  can  hardly  have  been  twice  quartered  on 
Attic  soil  without  affecting  seriously  the  rents  or  divi¬ 
dends  of  its  owners,  and  thus  the  parents  of  Euripides 


*  “  Bleared  with  the  glowing  mass,  the  luckless  sire 
From  anvils,  sledges,  bellows,  tongs,  and  fire, 

From  tempering  swords,  his  own  more  safe  employ, 

Tq  study  rhetoric  sent  his  hopeful  boy.” 

—Juvenal,  Sat.  x,,  GifforA 


80 


EURIPIDES. 


may  have  been  glad  to  sell  their  vegetables.*  To  repre¬ 
sent  Clito  as  vending  her  own  wares  was  an  irresistible 
temptation  to  comic  dramatists,  indifferent  whom  they 
used  for  mirth  and  laughter,  whether  it  were  a  Pericles 
or  a  Cleon. 

Like  many  fathers  before  him  and  since,  Mnesarchus 
was  puzzled  about  his  son’s  proper  calling  in  life;  and 
so,  as  modern  parents  often  consult  some  sound  divine 
about  the  choice  of  a  school  for  their  lads,  he  took  coun¬ 
sel  of  those  who  understood  what  the  stars  or  birds  of 
the  air  forebode  as  to  the  destiny  of  mortals.  But  either 
there  was  a  mistake  in  casting  the  boy’s  nativity,  or 
else  the  birds  lied;  for  both  they  and  the  stars  advised 
Mnesarchus  to  train  up  his  child  in  the  way  of  boxing 
and  wrestling.  So  far  this  muscular  education  was  suc¬ 
cessful;  it  enabled  the  young  Euripides  to  gain  a  prize 
or  two  in  the  ring,  but  at  local  matches  only,  for  though 
entered  for  the  Olympian  games,  he  was  not  allowed  to 
put  on  either  the  gloves  or  the  belt.  There  was  some 
informality — he  was  too  young  or  too  old — and  he  was 
struck  from  the  lists.  It  is  remarkable,  in  connection 
with  this  period  of  his  life — at  the  time  of  his  rejection 
by  the  Olympic  managers  he  is  said  to  have  been  about 
seventeen  years  of  age — that,  in  his  plays,  Euripides 
has  never  a  good  word  for  prophets  and  soothsayers; 
while,  as  for  athletes,  he  denounces  them  as  the  most 
useless  and  brutal  of  men.  His  aversion  to  them  may 
have  arisen  from  these  youthful  misadventures.  His 
proper  vocation  was  yet  to  seek;  and  until  he  found  it, 
he  seems  to  have  been  rather  devious  in  his  pursuits, 
since,  among  other  arts,  he  studied  that  of  painting,  and 

*  One  account  reverses  the  story:  according  to  it,  Clito  was  “  a 
person  of  quality,”  and  Mnesarchus  not  a  gentleman  but  a  shop¬ 
keeper,  or  at  lea$t  “in  business.” 


LIFE  OF  EURIPIDES. 


Si 

practised  it  with  some  success,  a  picture  by  him  being, 
long  after  his  decease,  exhibited  at  Megara,  either  as  a 
creditable  performance  or  a  curiosity.  The  painter  may 
have  been  of  service  to  the  poet;  his  dramas,  especially 
the  lyrical  portions  of  them,  display  much  fondness  for 
words  expressing  color.  Painting  was  perhaps  as  use¬ 
ful  an  ally  to  the  Greek  poet  as  skill  in  music  was  to 
Milton  in  the  construction  of  his  verse.  The  real  busi¬ 
ness  of  Euripides  turned  out  to  be  the  cultivation  of  his 
mind,  and  not  of  his  muscles.  His  lines  were  set  in  the 
(to  him)  always  pleasant  places  of  poetry  and  philosophy; 
his  wrestling  powers  were  to  be  exercised  in  combats 
with  dramatic  rivals  and  still  more  hostile  critics.  And 
this  was  perhaps  what  the  stars  really  said,  only  the 
stupid  soothsayers  did  not  read  them  aright.  Such  peo¬ 
ple  have  more  than  once  brought  those  who  consult 
them  into  trouble,  as  poor  king  Croesus,  long  before  Eu¬ 
ripides  was  born,  found  to  his  cost.  The  instructors  of 
Euripides  in  philosophy  were  Anaxagoras  for  physical 
and  Protagoras  for  moral  science.  Prodicus  gave  him 
lectures  in  rhetoric,  and  the  studies  of  his  youth  were 
confirmed,  expanded,  or  corrected  in  his  manhood  by  the 
good  sense  of  Socrates,  who,  besides  being  a  guide  and 
philosopher,  was  also  his  friend.  An  education  of  this 
kind  implies  that  either  Mnesarclius  was  a  man  of  fortune 
or  that  his  son  early  came  into  one,  inasmuch  as  the  Greek 
sophistical  lecturers  were  quite  as  costly  as  many  English 
private  tutors  are  now.  We  do  not  know  their  actual 
terms,  but  we  do  know  that  they  were  beyond  the  reach 
of  ordinary  incomes.  “Think,”  says  Hippias  to  Soc¬ 
rates,  “of  the  sums  of  money  which  Protagoras  and 
Prodicus  collected  from  Greece.  If  you  knew  how 
much  I  had  made  myself,  you  would  be  surprised. 
From  one  town,  and  that  a  very  small  one,  I  carried  off 


82 


EURIPIDES . 


i 


more  than  150  minse  (£609),  which  I  took  home  and 
gave  to  my  father,  to  the  extreme  astonishment  of  him¬ 
self  and  his  fellow-townsmen.”  It  is  also  a  token  of 
Euripides  being  well  provided  with  money,  that  he 
collected  a  library — large  enough  to  excite  observation 
at  the  time,  and  to  be  recorded  afterwards.  Forming  a 
library  in  any  age,  heathen  or  Christian,  is  an  expen¬ 
sive  taste;  and,  on  the  whole,  printed  books  are  cheaper 
than  those  transcribed  by  the  hand.  Grecian  sheep¬ 
skin  or  good  Egyptian  paper  (papyrus)  was  a  costly 
luxury.  n 

In  his  twenty-sixth  year  Euripides  presented  himself 
for  the  first  time  among  the  candidates  for  the  dramatic 
crown.  In  that  year  (455  B.c.)  death  removed  one  for¬ 
midable  rival  from  his  path,  since  in  it  iEschylus  ex¬ 
pired.  Of  the  three  tragedies  produced  by  him  on  this 
his  first  trial,  one  was  entitled  “The  Daughters  of 
Pelias,”*and  a  few  lines  of  it  which  have  been  pre¬ 
served  show  that  it  turned  upon  some  adventures  of 
Medea — a  theme  that  a  few  years  after  he  was  to  handle 
with  signal  success.  The  third  prize  was  awarded  to 
him — no  mean  distinction  for  a  novice.  But  not  until 
Euripides  was  just  forty  years  old  did  he  obtain  the 
first  prize;  and  the  name  of  this  successful  trilogy  is 
not  preserved.  Prominent  as  the  “Medea”  now  stands 

*  Among  the  few  fragments  preserved  of  this  play  are  four 
lines,  apparently  indicating  that  Medea  was  devising  mischief  to 
somebody— perhaps  putting  on  the  copper  or  sharpening  a  knife 
for  the  behoof  of  Pelias.  Whatever  it  was,  she  is  asking  advice, 
and  her  monitor  gives  it  like  a  person  of  good  sense: 

“  A  good  device;  yet  to  my  counsel  list: 

Whilst  thou  art  young,  think  as  becomes  thy  years; 
Maidenly  manners  maidens  best  become. 

But  when  some  worthy  man  has  thee  espoused, 

Leave  plots  to  him;  they  suit  not  with  thy  sex.” 


LIFE  OF  EURIPIDES. 


33 


among  his  works,  the  trilogy  of  which  it  formed  a 
part  gained  only  the  third  prize.  Six  years  after  the 
production  of  the  “  Medea/’  Aristophanes  opened  upon 
its  author  his  double  battery  of  sarcasm  and  parody, 
not  indeed  against  the  “Medea,”  but  against  a  com¬ 
panion-drama,  now  lost,  the  “Philoctetes.”*  It  is 
difficult  to  perceive  any  possible  link  between  the 
Colchian  princess  and  the  possessor  of  the  bow  and 
arrows  of  Hercules;  we  may  therefore  infer  that  the 
group  to  which  these  two  plays  belonged  was  made  up 
of  fables  unconnected  with  each  other — a  departure 
from  earlier  practice  that  did  not  originate  with  Euri¬ 
pides,  though  he  is  sometimes  taxed  with  it. 

He  was  twice  married;  his  first  wife  was  Clicerilla,  a 
daughter  of  the  Mnesilochus  who  appears  in  Aristo¬ 
phanes’s  comedy  of  the  “  Thesmophoriazusae by  her 
he  had  three  sons:  his  second  was  Melitto.  According 
to  some  accounts  he  was  a  bigamist;  in  Athens,  how¬ 
ever,  bigamy,  though  uncommon,  was  not  a  punishable 
offence,  f  There  was  some  scandal  about  one  or  other 

*  Of  this  “  Philoctetes”  there  is  a  very  fair  account— by  no 
means  a  common  piece  of  luck  with  Euripides— by  Dion  Chry¬ 
sostom,  Oration  lii.  Dion  compares  the  “Philoctetes”  of  A3s- 
chylus  (lost)  and  that  of  Sophocles  (extant)  with  the  Euripidean 
drama ;  and  he  shows  that  each  of  these  pieces  has  its  several 
merits. 

t  Hume,  in  his  19th  Essay,  writes:  “  I  have  somewhere  read 
that  the  republic  of  Athens,  having  lost  many  of  its  citizens  by 
war  and  pestilence,  allowed  every  man  to  marry  two  wives,  in 
order  the  sooner  to  repair  the  waste  which  had  been  made  by 
these  calamities.  The  poet  Euripides  happened  to  be  coupled 
to  two  noisy  vixens,  who  so  plagued  him  with  their  jealousies 
and  quarrels  that  he  became  ever  after  a  professed  woman- 
hater;  and  is  the  only  theatrical  writer,  perhaps  the  only  poet, 
that  ever  entertained  an  aversion  to  the  sex.”  The  “good 
David,”  though  sceptical  enough  on  some  subjects,  was  rathef 
credulous  on  the  score  of  anecdotes  of  this  sort. 


mmpiDEs. 


34 

or  both  of  these  ladies ;  probably, if  there  were  any  ground 
for  it,  it  applied  to  Melitto,  since  Euripides  lived  for 
many  years  with  Choerilla,  upon,  so  far  as  is  known, 
ordinary  connubial  terms.  Athens,  however,  it  must 
be  recollected,  in  justice  to  both  ladies,  was  a  very 
gossiping  city;  nothing  (we  have  it  on  the  authority  of 
St.  Paul,  seconded  by  that  of  Demosthenes)  pleased 
them  so  much  as  to  tell  and  ^o  hear  news,  and  any  news 
about  Euripides  was  certain  of  welcome  to  those  who 
had  laughed  at  the  representation  of  him  in  the  “  Achar- 
nians.”  If  it  be  fair  to  draw  inferences  from  the  wed¬ 
ded  happiness  of  “the  laureate  fraternity  of  poets,”  it 
might  appear  that  Euripides  would  have  fared  better 
had  he  remained  a  bachelor.  Dante  complains  that 
Gemma,  his  wife,  held  him  in  subjection;  Shakespeare 
was  not  quite  comfortable,  it  would  seem,  at  home;  Mil¬ 
ton’s  start  in  married  life  was  unlucky;  Wycherley  and 
Addison  were  fearfully  henpecked.  If  Christian  hus¬ 
bands  fared  so  ill,  it  may  have  been  worse  with  a 
heathen  poet,  at  a  time  and  in  a  country  where  a  man’s 
lawful  wife  was  scarcely  more  than  his  cook  and  house¬ 
keeper. 

There  is  no  trace  of  Euripides  having,  at  any  period 
of  his  life,  taken  part  in  public  affairs.  He  seems 
never  to  have  been  archon,  or  general,  as  Sophocles  was, 
or  priest,  or  ambassador,  or  foreman  of  a  jury.  Doubt¬ 
less  he  paid  some  rates  or  taxes  in  his  parish  ( deme ), 
Phylse  of  the  Cecropid  tribe.  He  was  commonly 
accounted  a  morose  and  sulky  fellow;  and  since  he 
shunned  general  society,  he  was  naturally  charged 
with  keeping  low  company.*  He  was  indeed — far  more 


♦The  spirits  in  Hades,  that  in  “The  Frogs”  rejoice  in  the 
rhetorical  tricks  ascribed  to  Euripides,  are  supposed,  while  on 
earth,  to  have  inhabited  the  bodies  of  cutpurses,  highwaymen, 


LIFE  OF  EUBIPIDES. 


35 


than  was  usual  in  his  time,  and  among  a  people  passing 
most  of  their  days  in  public — “a  literary  man,”  pre¬ 
ferring  solitude  and  his  library  to  the  hubbub  of  the 
market-place,  or  the  crowding  and  noise  of  popular 
assemblies.  According  to  a  story  preserved  by  a  Roman 
anecdotist,  Euripides  pursued  his  studies  in  a  grim 
and  gloomy  fashion.  One  Philochorus  professed  to 
have  seen  a  “  grottos  hagged  with  horrid  thorn,”* *  in 
which  he  composed  his  tragedies.  He  is  said  never  to 
have  laughed,  rarely  to  have  even  smiled,  and  to  have 
worn  habitually  a  sorrowful  visage.  If  it  were  so, 
Euripides  was  such  a  man  as  the  vivacious  Gratiano 
disliked,  and  even  suspected: 

“  Why  should  a  man  whose  blood  is  "warm  within 
Sit  like  his  grandsire  cut  in  alabaster? 

Sleep  when  he  wakes,  and  creep  into  the  jaundice 
By  being  peevish?” 

And  Csesar  perhaps  might  have  thought  him  dangerous, 
though  we  have  no  reason  for  supposing  Euripides 
“lean  and  hungry,”  as  Cassius  was,  but,  on  the  con¬ 
trary,  as  will  appear,  a  well-favored,  though  a  grave 


burglars,  and  parricides— such  “minions  of  the  moon”  being, 
in  Aristophanes's  opinion,  the  pupils  of  sophistical  tutors;  or, 
at  least,  their  notions  of  property  and  filial  piety,  he  thinks, 
were  probable  results  of  their  education.  There  wras  a  time 
•when  to  be  a  Hobbist  or  a  Benthamite  was  thought  to  tend  to 
similar  aberrations  from  virtue, 

*  Ben  Jonson,  certainly  not  an  unsocial  man  (witness  thy 
things  said  at  the  Mermaid,  his  butt  of  sack,  his  “  Tribe  of  Ben”), 
describes  himself  in  these  lines: 

“  I,  that  spend  half  my  nights  and  all  my  days 
Here  in  a  cell  to  get  a  dark  pale  face, 

To  come  forth  worth  the  ivy  and  the  bays,”  etc. 

Did  we  know  as  little  of  the  English  as  we  do  of  the  Greek  poet, 
here  would  be  ground  enough  for  a  legend  of  a  “grotto,” 


36 


EURIPIDES. 


and  silent,  man.  Perhaps  Euripides’s  horoscope  may 
have  resembled  that  of  the  good  knight  of  Norwich: 
“I  was  born,”  says  Sir  Thomas  Browne,  “in  the  plan¬ 
etary  hour  of  Saturn,  and  I  think  I  have  a  piece  of  that 
leaden  planet  in  me.  I  am  no  way  facetious,  nor  dis¬ 
posed  for  the  mirth  and  galliardise  of  company.” 

The  “Spectator”  remarks  that  “a  reader  seldom  pe¬ 
ruses  a  book  with  pleasure  till  he  knows  whether  the 
writer  of  it  be  a  black  or  a  fair  man,  of  a  mild  or  choleric 
disposition,  married  or  a  bachelor,  with  other  particu¬ 
lars  of  the  like  nature  that  conduce  very  much  to  the 
right  understanding  of  an  author.”  There  are  means 
for  “gratifying  this  curiosity,  which  is  so  natural  to  a 
reader:”  for,  thanks  to  some  scholiast  or  painstaking 
collector  of  the  curiosities  of  literature,  there  exists  a 
brief  life  of  Euripides  containing  some  account  of  his 
personal  appearance.  He  is  said  to  have  worn  a  bushy 
beard,  and  to  have  had  freckles  on  his  face.  This,  in¬ 
deed,  is  not  much;  yet  it  is  somewhat  for  us  to  learn — 
a  scrap  redeemed  from  the  wallet  that  Time  bears  on 
his  back.  On  the  same  authority  we  may  fairly  as¬ 
sume,  that  when  a  beardless  youth,  and  perhaps  un¬ 
freckled,  he  was  noted  for  fair  visage,  and  that  he  was 
“a  gentleman  born.”  He  was  a  torcli-bearer  at  the 
festival  of  Apollo  of  Zoster,  a  village  on  the  coast  of 
Attica.*  Now  none  but  handsome  and  well-born  youth 

*  The  festival  was  held  at  Delphi,  and  probably,  therefore, 
Euripides  was  conveyed  thither  in  the  galley  (paralus)  which 
annually  carried  offerings  to  Apollo’s  shrine.  The  young  men, 
clad  in  Theraic  garments,  danced  round  the  altar.  May  not 
this  visit  to  Delphi  have  been  the  germ  of  the  poet’s  beautiful 
drama,  :*Ion”?  In  any  case  the  report  of  it  shows  that  no 
ignobility  of  birth  was  attached  to  the  name  of  Euripides  by 
those  who  circulated  it;  and  among  them  was  Theophrastus, 
who  indeed  wrote  long  afterwards,  but  yet  weighed  his  facts. 


LIFE  OF  EURIPIDES . 


37 


were  chosen  for  that  office.  It  is  to  he  hoped  that  many 
of  our  readers  are  acquainted  with  Charles  Lamb’s 
righteous  indignation  at  the  conduct  of  the  “wretched 
Malone,”  the  Shakespearian  editor  and  commentator, 
in  covering  with  white  paint  the  portrait-bust  of  Shake¬ 
speare  at  Stratford-upon-Avon,  “which,  in  rude  but 
lively  fashion,  depicted  him  to  the  very  color  of  the 
cheek,  the  eye,  the  eyebrow,  hair,  the  very  dress  he 
used  to  wear — the  only  authentic  testimony  we  have, 
however  imperfect,  of  these  curious  parts  and  parcels 
of  him.”  If  we  balance  in  each  case  probable  facts 
against  equally  probable  traditions,  we  may  conclude 
Euripides  to  be  known  to  us  almost  as  well  as  Shake¬ 
speare,  owing  to  this  good  Dryasdust,  the  Greek  bio¬ 
grapher,  who  disdains  not  to  chronicle  even  “  freckles.” 

But  it  is  impossible  to  believe  Euripides  to  have  been 
a  mere  recluse.  His  vocation  as  a  writer  for  the  stage 
must  have  brought  him  into  contact  with  many  persons 
connected  with  the  theatre — with  the  archon  who  as¬ 
signed  him  a  chorus,  with  the  actors,  singers,  and 
musicians  who  performed  in  his  plays,  and  with  the 
judges  who  awarded  the  prizes.  Yet  if  we  ask  what 
company  he  kept,  we  pause  for  a  reply,  and  do  not  get 
one.  We  know  that  he  was  a  friend  of  Socrates,  who 
never  missed  attending  on  the  “first  night”  of  a  play  by 
Euripides.  We  know  also  that,  every  man’s  house  and 
many  men’s  tables  were  open  to  the  Silenus-like  son  of 
Sophroniscus.  We  can  tell  the  names  of  the  guests  at 
Plato’s  and  at  Xenophon’s  banquets.  Socrates  of 
course  is  at  both,  and  that  of  Plato  is  held  at  the  house 
of  Agathon,  Euripides’s  intimate  friend.  Some  kind 
of  acquaintance,  perhaps  not  exactly  friendship,  existed 
between  Alcibiades  and  Euripides,  who  once  celebrated 
ia  verse  a  chariot- victory  of  that  brilliant  but  dangerous 


38 


EURIPIDES. 


citizen’s  at  the  Olympic  games.  Neither  at  Plato’s  nor 
Xenophon’s  feast,  however,  is  Euripides  present.  Nor 
is  it  likely  that  travelling  into  foreign  parts  was  among 
the  causes  for  his  absence  on  such  festive  occasions, 
since,  until  in  his  later  years  he  quitted  Athens,  there . 
is  no  trace  of  his  leaving  Attica,  except  the  single  fact 
of  an  inscription  in  the  island  of  Icarus  ascribed  to  him. 
This,  however,  is  no  evidence  at  all  of  his  being  fron\ 
home,  since  a  waxen  tablet  or  a  snip  of  papyrus  could 
have  ..conveyed  the  inscription,  while  Euripides  re¬ 
mained  in  his  grotto  or  his  library,  wrapt  in  contempla¬ 
tion  on  his  next  new  play,  or  striving  to  solve  hard 
sayings  of  Prodicus  or  Protagoras. 

Once,  indeed,  we  find  him  at  home.  It  was  in  his 
house  that  Protagoras  is  said  to  have  read  one  of  the 
works  by  which  that  philosopher  incurred  a  charge 
of  atheism;  and  this  worshipful  society,  once  bruited 
abroad,  was  not  likely  to  be  overlooked  by  the  pious 
writers  of  comedy.  Often,  indeed,  does  Athens,  at  the 
period  of  the  Peloponnesian  vrar,  present  an  image  of 
Paris  in  the  last  century.  There  the  Church  was 
despised,  and  yet  stanchly  supported  by  men  of 
notoriously  evil  life;  in  Athens,  divinities,  whom  the 
people  worshipped  superstitiously,  if  not  devoutly, 
when  the  theatre  was  closed,  were  butts  for  the  peo¬ 
ple’s  mirth  and  laughter  when  it  was  open.  We 
have  a  record  of  only  the  two  banquets  of  this  time 
already  mentioned.  Could  we  have  a  report  of  a 
“petit  souper  d'  Alcibiades,”  it  might  very  likely  re¬ 
mind  us  of  those  symposiums  where  the  head  of  the 
Church,  Leo  the  Tenth,  encouraged  his  parasites  and 
buffoons  to  debate  on  the  greatest  mysteries  of  religion ; 
or  the  still  better  known  conversations  that  took  place 
the  supper-tatye  of  BarQn  Holbach,  Had  we 


LIFE  OF  EURIPIDES. 


39 


such  report  of  the  petite  soupers  at  Athens,  possibly 
some  resemblance  might  be  found  between  Protagoras 
and  D’Alembert,  or  between  the  brilliant,  versatile, 
and  unprincipled  Philip  of  Orleans  and  Alcibiades. 
With  Alcibiades  there  was  certainly  some  party  or 
friendly  relation  with  Euripides;  but  it  is  vain  to  specu¬ 
late  on  its  nature.  Whatever  it  was,  it  would  do  the 
tragic  poet  no  good  with  Aristophanes ;  and  if  the  story 
be  true  that  Alcibiades  and  his  associates  marred  the 
first  and  hindered  the  second  representation  of  “  The 
Clouds,”  the  baffled  and  irritated  satirist  may  have  sus¬ 
pected  Euripides  of  having  a  hand  in  his  failure,  and 
for  that,  and  perhaps  other  weightier  reasons,  have  put 
him  down  in  his  black  book. 

Certain  is  it  that  Aristophanes  regarded  Euripides 
with  a  feeling  seemingly  compounded  of  fear  and  con¬ 
tempt — of  contempt  for  him  as  a  scenic  artist,  and  fear 
of  him  as  a  corrupter  of  youth.  Yet  it  is  difficult  to 
detect  the  cause  for  such  hostility;  political  motives 
can  hardly  have  been  at  the  root  of  it.  Did  Aristo¬ 
phanes  detest  the  war  with  Peloponnesus,  and  yearn  for 
the  return  of  peace?  so  did  Euripides.  Did  he  regard 
the  middle  class  of  citizens  as  the  pith  and  marrow  of 
the  commonwealth?  Euripides  thought  so  too.  The 
husbandman  who  tilled  his  little  plot  of  ground  they 
both  set  above  the  shopkeeper,  who  applauded  the 
demagogue  of  the  hour,  and  spent,  or  more  properly 
idled  away,  half  his  time  on  the  stone  benches  of  the 
Pnyx.  Did  the  comic  writer  love  Athens  in  his  heart 
of  hearts  though  he  often  told  her  from  the  stage  that 
she  was  a  dolt  and  a  dupe?  the  tragic  writer  loved  her 
no  less,  and  paid  her  compliments  sometimes  not  to  the 
advantage  of  a  play  or  a  trilogy.  Did  the  one  look  upon 
orators  with  an  unfavorable  eye?  so  did  the  other;  while 


40 


EURIPIDES. 


both  agreed  that  nobility  of  birth  and  depth  of  purse 
did  not  necessarily  constitute  the  best  citizen.  Yet,  in 
spite  of  so  much  harmony  in  their  opinions,  there  were 
differences  that  could  not  be  bridged  over;  there  was 
repugnance  that  defied  reconciliation,  and  views  of 
Athens  as  it  had  been,  and  Athens  as  it  was  then,  which 
kept  them  in  the  compass  of  one  town  as  far  apart  as 
if  rivers  and  mountains,  clime  or  race,  had  sundered 
them. 

The  enmity  of  Aristophanes  increased  with  the  years, 
and  did  not  relax  with  the  death,  of  Euripides.  The 
first  known  attack  upon  him  was  made  in  his  comedy 
of  “The  Acharnians”  or  “The  Charcoal-Burners.” 
The  last  was  made  two  years  after  “sad  Electra’s  poet” 
had  been  struck  down  by  a  yet  more  “insatiate  archer” 
than  Aristophanes  himself.  The  spirit  that  breathes  in 
“  The  Acharnians”  reappears,  but  with  increased  bitter¬ 
ness,  in  “  The  Frogs,”  and  to  sharp  censure  on  Euripi- 
dean  art  is  added  still  sharper  on  Euripidean  theology. 
Some  modern  writers  on  the  subject  of  the  Greek  drama 
have  contemplated  Euripides  through  the  eyes  of  his 
great  satirist.  They  might,  perhaps,  have  done  better 
to  consider,  before  following  their  witty  leader,  whether 
he  was  guiding  them  in  the  right  road;  whether  the 
comic  writer’s  objections  rested  on  patriotic  or  moral, 
or  on  party  or  personal  grounds.  Aristophanes  was  a 
stubborn  reactionist:  the  men  of  Marathon  and  Plat£Ea, 
of  Salamis  and  Mycale,  he  held  to  be  the  type  of  good 
Athenians.  The  new  schools  appeared  to  him  in  the 
same  light  as  Greek  philosophy  in  general  appeared  to 
the  sturdy  old  Sabine  Cato — schools  of  impudence  and 
lying.  Pericles  himself  he  seems  never  to  have  really 
liked,  but  set  him  below  Myronides  and  Thucydides, 
men  of  the  good  old  time,  for  the  return  of  which,  as  all 


LIFE  OF  EURIPIDES. 


41 


reactionists  must  ever  do,  he  yearned  in  vain.  Euripi¬ 
des,  on  the  other  hand,  was  a  man  of  the  new  time, 
perhaps  a  little  beyond  as  well  as  of  it.  More  cheerful 
views  of  humanity,  ampler  range  of  inquiry,  greater 
freedom  of  thought,  supplanted  in  his  mind  the  gloomy 
superstition  or  the  slavish  faith  of  a  past  generation, 
with  whom  an  eclipse  was  a  token  of  the  wrath  of  the 
gods,  and  by  whom  the  sun  was  thought  to  be  no  bigger 
than  a  heavy-armed  soldier’s  buckler.  “Between  the 
pass  and  fell  incensed  points”  of  two  such  opposites 
there  could  be  nothing  but  collision;  and  the  tragic  poet 
labored  under  this  serious  disadvantage,  that  he  could 
not  bring  his  antagonist  on  the  stage. 

Yet  the  most  ardent  admirer  of  Euripides  is  compelled 
to  allow  that  this  indefatigable  writer  of  plays  and 
laborious  student  can  hardly  be  ranked  among  success¬ 
ful  poets.  “It  lias  been  observed,”  says  an  eminent 
judge  of  Greek  literature,  “  that  the  success  of  Euripi¬ 
des,  if  it  is  measured  by  the  prizes  which  he  is  said  to 
have  gained,  would  not  seem  to  have  been  very  great; 
and  perhaps  there  may  be  reason  to  suspect  that  he 
owed  much  of  the  applause  which  he  obtained  in  his 
lifetime  to  the  favor  of  a  party,  which  was  strong  rather 
in  rank  and  fortune  than  in  numbers, — the  same  which 
is  said  to  have  been  headed  by  Alcibiades.”  “  It  is  not 
quite  certain  that,  even  in  the  latter  part  of  his  career, 
Euripides  was  so  popular  as  Sophocles.  In  answer  to  a 
question  of  Socrates,  in  a  conversation  with  Xenophon, 
probably  heard  during  the  latter  part  of  the  Peloponne¬ 
sian  war,  Sophocles  is  mentioned  as  indisputably  the 
most  admirable  in  his  art.”  *  If,  according  to  this  very 
probable  suggestion,  Euripides  were  the  poet  of  the  few 


*  Thirlwall’s  Hist,  of  Greece,  iv.  273. 


42 


EURIPIDES. 


and  not  of  the  Athenians  in  general,  his  frequent  failure 
to  win  the  ivy  wreath  may  easily  be  explained.  De¬ 
mocracy,  though  in  all  times  it  delights  in  clubs,  is  very 
jealous  of  coteries,  especially  if  composed  of  men  well- 
to-do  in  the  world,  or  of  men  noted  for  their  learning  or 
refinement,  and  particularly  jealous  would  all  old- 
fashioned  Cecropids  be  of  a  club  in  which  Alcibiades 
was  chairman.  If,  however,  the  wayward  Plieidippides  * 
of  the  comedy  may  sometimes  have  hindered  the  poet’s 
success  in  a  theatrical  contest,  he  may  as  probably  have 
atoned  for  this  grievance  at  home  by  obtaining  for  him 
a  better  reception  abroad.  “  There  are  dwellers  out  of  ” 
Attica,  without  going  to  the  realm  of  the  Birds  to  find 
them.  And  among  the  dependencies  of  Athens,  in  the 
tributary  islands  and  among  the  Greeks  of  the  Lesser 
Asia,  where  Alcibiades  had  much  influence,  he  may 
have  been  an  efficient  patron  of  the  often,  at  home, 
mortified  dramatist. 

An  historian,  who  wrote  centuries  after  Euripides 
had  passed  beyond  these  and  other  vexations,  cannot 
conceal  his  surprise  that  one  Xenocles  should  have  been 
the  successful  competitor  in  a  contest  with  the  son  of 
Mnesarchus.  He  fairly  calls  the  judges  and  spectators 
on  the  occasion  a  parcel  of  fools — dunderheads  un¬ 
worthy  to  bear  the  name  of  Athenian.  But  in  missing 
the  first  or  even  the  second  crown,  Euripides  only  fared 
alike  with  iEscliylus  and  Sophocles;  and  that,  with 
such  samples  of  the  two  latter  as  have  come  to  our 
hands,  is  a  much  more  remarkable  circumstance  than 
the  one  it  puzzled  Arrian  to  account  for.f  What 


*  Pheidippides,  in  “  The  Clouds”  of  Aristophanes,  is  reputed  to 
be  a  caricature  of  Alcibiades. 

+  Various  Histories,  v. 


life  of  ztmtpmm 


43 


dramatic  giants  must  they  have  been  who  strove  for 
the  mastery  with  the  old  Marathonian  soldier,  and  with 
the  Shakespeare  of  the  Grecian  world  I  Perhaps  an¬ 
other  cause  occasionally  cost  Euripides  the  crown.  He, 
like  Ben  Jonson,  was  at  times  perverse  in  the  choice 
or  in  the  treatment  of  his  subjects.  Even  from  the 
satire  of  Aristophanes  it  is  plain  that  he  had  an  unlucky 
propensity  to  tread  on  debatable,  and  even  dangerous, 
ground.  By  his  innovations  in  legendary  stories,  by 
occasionally  tampering  with  criminal  passion,  by  per¬ 
haps  carrying  to  excess  his  fondness  for  mere  stage 
effect,  he  perplexed  or  offended  his  audience,  not  in¬ 
clined  to  accept  as  an  apology  for  the  exhibition  of 
wicked  characters  his  plea  that  in  the  end  they  were  all 
well  punished  for  their  sins.*  Even  his  constant  ap- 
plauder  from  the  benches,  Socrates,  had,  it  is  said,  once 
to  implore  him  to  cut  out  from  a  play  certain  offensive 
lines;  and  a  story  preserved  by  a  Roman  anecdotist 
shows  that  occasionally  he  was  obliged  to  come  on  the 
stage  himself,  and  crave  the  spectators  to  keep  their 
seats  until  the  end  of  the  performance.!  It  seems  that 
Euripides  could  give  a  tart  reply  to  his  audience  when 
their  opinions  happened  to  differ  from  his  own;  for 
when  the  whole  house  demanded  that  an  offensive  pas¬ 
sage  or  sentiment  in  a  tragedy  should  be  struck  out,  he 
said,  “  Good  people,  it  is  my  business  to  teach  you,  and 
not  to  be  taught  by  you.”  How  the  ‘‘good  people” 
took  this  curt  rebuff  is  not  recorded ;  but  if  they  damned 
his  play,  he  at  least  did  not,  as  Ben  Jonson  did,  sulk  for 
a  few  years  and  leave  the  “  loathed  stage”  in  dudgeon, 
after  venting  his  wrath  on  the  public  by  an  abusive  ode 
and  some  stinging  epigrams.  On  the  contrary,  Euri- 


*  Valerius  Maximus. 


t  Valerius  Maximus. 


44 


mniPiDm 


pides  went  on  preparing  plays  for  the  greater  and  lesser 
seasons  of  the  theatrical  period,  until  he  left  Athens  and 
his  enemies  therein — for  ever. 

Amid  frequent  disappointments,  and  smarting  under 
the  lash  of  the  comic  poets — for  we  may  be  sure  that 
where  an  Aristophanes  led  the  way,  others,  however 
inferior  to  him,  would  follow  eagerly — Euripides  at  a 
moment  of  universal  dismay  perhaps  enjoyed  some  per¬ 
sonal  consolation.  The  mighty  host  which  Athens  had 
sent  to  Syracuse  had  been  nearly  annihilated.  Of  forty 
thousand  citizens  or  allies  that  had  gone  forth,  ten 
thousand  only  survived.  Of  her  vast  armament — vast 
if  we  bear  in  mind  that  her  free  population  fell  below 
that  of  many  English  fourth-rate  cities — not  a  war- 
galley,  not  a  transport- ship,  returned  to  Peirseus:  of  her 
soldiers,  a  handful  only  found  refuge  in  a  friendly 
Sicilian  town.  The  last  months  of  autumn  in  413  b.c. 
were  months  of  national  consternation  and  household 
grief.  Not  long  since  we  were  reading  of  the  general 
aspect  of  mourning  for  the  slain  at  Berlin  and  other 
German  cities.  The  mourning  in  Athens  was  of  a 
deeper  dye,  since  it  was  accompanied  by  dismay,  if  not 
despair,  for  the  immediate  future.  Syracuse  had  been 
to  Athens  what  Moscow  was  for  Napoleon.  Yet  early 
perhaps  in  the  next  year  there  reached  the  “violet 
Queen”  at  first  rumors,  then  credible  reports,  and  at 
last  the  glad  assurance,  that  any  Athenian  prisoner  who 
could  recite  scenes  or  passages  from  the  dramas  of 
Euripides  was  taken  out  of  the  dreary  stone-quarries  of 
Syracuse,  was  kindly  entreated  in  Sicilian  homes,  was 
nursed  if  sick  or  wounded,  and  if  not  presently  restored 
to  freedom  (for  such  self-denial  the  captors  prized  their 
captives  too  highly),  yet  treated  not  as  a  slave,  but  as  a 
welcome  and  honored  guest.  Some  indeed— how  few 


i 


LIFE  OF  EURIPIDES. 


45 


or  how  many  cannot  be  told — were  suffered  to  return  to 
Attica;  and  of  these — poor  gleanings  after  a  bloody 
reaping — some  can  hardly  have  failed  to  go  to  the  house 
of  their  deliverer,  and  with  faltering  voice  and  tearful 
eyes  implored  the  gods,  since  they  could  not,  to  reward 
him.  “Little  thought  we,”  they  may  be  imagined  to 
have  said  to  him,  “when  we  saw  represented  in  your 
‘  Trojan  Women’  the  desolation  of  a  hostile  city,  troops 
of  warriors  dragged  in  chains  to  the  black  ships  of  the 
Achseans,  tender  and  delicate  princesses  told  off  to  their 
allotted  owners;  or  again,  in  your  ‘Suppliants,’  the 
wives  of  the  slain  weeping  for  their  husbands  denied 
burial;  or  that  bloody  meadow  before  the  seven-gated 
Thebes  strewn  with  the  dead  in  your  ‘  Phoenicians’ — 
little  then  thought  we  that  these  mimic  shows  were  but 
shadows  of  what  we  beheld  on  the  banks  of  the  Asina- 
rus  on  that  dreary  October  morning,  when,  faint  and 
worn  by  our  night- march,  and  maddened  by  thirst,  cap¬ 
tain  and  soldier,  hoplite  and  peltast,  we  rushed  into  its 
stream,  careless  of  the  archers  that  lined  its  banks,  and 
hardly  recking  of  the  iron  sleet  that  struck  down  our 
best  and  bravest.  By  the  magic  of  your  song,  though 
‘sung  in  a  strange  land,’  we  poor  survivors  were  res¬ 
cued  and  redeemed  from  graves  and  the  prison-house, 
from  hunger  and  nakedness,  from  the  burning  sun  and 
the  sharp  night-frosts  of  autumn,  and  from  what  was  as 
hard  to  bear,  the  scoffs  of  the  insolent  foe  gazing  down 
upon  us  from  morn  to  eve,  and  aggravating  by  brutal 
taunts  and  ribald  jests  the  pains  of  the  living  and  the 
terrors  of  the  dying.”  If  the  character  of  Euripides 
may  be  inferred  from  his  writings,  the  most  pathetic  of 
Greek  tragic  poets — he  who  sympathized  with  the  slave, 
he  who  so  tenderly  depicted  women — wept  at  such  mo¬ 
ments  with  those  who  were  weeping  before  him,  and 


46 


EURIPIDES. 


was  cheered  by  these  proofs  that  he  had  not  written  or 
lived  in  vain. 

The  “Orestes”  was  the  last  play  exhibited  at  Athens 
by  Euripides ;  and  he  must  have  quitted  that  city 
shortly  afterwards,  if  he  was  in  exile  for  two  years. 
He  was  a  self-banished  man;  at  least  no  cause  is  as¬ 
signed  for  his  departure.  Of  the  three  great  dramatic 
poets  whose  works  have  in  part  been  preserved,  one 
only  died  in  his  birthplace.  iEschylus  quitted  Athens 
in  dudgeon  at  a  charge  of  sacrilege,  and  Euripides  ended 
his  days  at  a  foreign  court.  After  a  short  sojourn  in 
Magnesia,  he  went  to  Pella,  the  capital  of  the  then  small, 
and  in  the  eyes  of  republican  Greeks  unimportant, 
kingdom  of  Macedonia.  He  was  invited  to  it  by  the 
reigning  sovereign,  Archelaus,  who  in  his  way  was  a 
sort  of  Lorenzo  de’  Medici,  attracting  to  his  court 
artists,  poets,  and  philosophers,  and  corresponding  with 
them  when  at  a  distance.  Among  those  whom  he  in¬ 
vited  was  Socrates;  but  lie,  who  cared  for  neither 
money  nor  goods,  and  who  spoke  his  mind  pretty  freely 
at  all  times  and  to  all  people,  declined  going  to  Pella, 
thinking  perhaps  that  he  would  make  an  indifferent 
courtier,  and  knowing  that  despots  have  (as  well  as 
long  hands)  their  caprices.  Archelaus — the  Macedonian 
kings  always  affected  to  be  zealously  Hellenic — estab¬ 
lished  a  periodical  Olympic  festival  in  honor  of  Jupiter 
and  the  Muses,  and  perhaps  spoke  Greek  as  his  native 
tongue,  and  with  as  good  accent  as  Frederick  the  Great 
is  said  to  have  spoken  French.  At  Pella  Euripides  met 
with  a  reception  that  may  have  led  him  to  regret  his 
not  sooner  quitting  litigious  and  scurrilous  Athens, 
where  housewives  abominated  his  name  and  doubtless 
pitied  Chcerilla  and  Melitto,  and  where  orthodox  temple- 
goers  were  scandalized  by  his  theological  opinions. 


LIFE  OF  EURIPIDES. 


47 


Lucian  mentions  a  report  that  the  poet  held  some  public 
office  in  Macedonia,  which,  seeing  that  he  never  meddled 
with  even  parish  business  at  home,  is  scarcely  probable. 
As  little  likely  is  it  that  he  turned  flatterer  of  kings  in 
his  later  days.  We  can  as  soon  believe  that  the  grim 
Dante  became  a  parasite  at  the  court  of  Can  Grande 
della  Scala.  Aristotle,  indeed,  a  more  trustworthy 
authority  than  Lucian,  tells  the  following  story: — De- 
camnichus,  a  young  Macedonian,  and  a  favorite  of  the 
king,  gave  deep  offence  to  Euripides  by  remarks  on  his 
bad  breath.  Complaint  being  made,  the  indiscreet  youth 
was  handed  over  to  the  incensed  poet,  with  the  royal 
permission  to  flog  him;  and  soundly  flogged  he  seems 
to  have  been,  since  Decamnichus  bore  his  chastisement 
in  mind  for  six  years,  and  then  relieved  his  feelings  by 
encouraging  some  friends  or  acquaintances,  Euripides 
being  out  of  reach,  to  murder  Archelaus.* 

At  the  Macedonian  court  Euripides  was  not  the  only 
Athenian  guest.  His  friend  Agathon,  flying  perhaps 
from  duns,  critics,  or  public  informers,  found  a  royal 
city  a  pleasanter  residence  than  a  democratic  one. 
There,  was  the  celebrated  musical  composer,  Timotheus, 
whom,  when  he  was  hissed  at  the  Odeum  some  years 
before,  Euripides  is  said  to  have  consoled  by  predicting 
that  “  he  would  soon  have  the  audience  at  his  feet,”  a 
prophecy  that  was  fully  realized.  His  presence  at  Pella 
may  have  been  convenient  to  Euripides,  who  was  then 
employed  in  putting  the  last  touches  to,  if  not  actually 
composing,  two  of  his  finest  plays — “  The  Bacchanals” 
and  the  “Iphigenia  at  Aulis.”  There,  too,  was  Choeri- 
lus,  an  epic  poet,  who  celebrated  in  Homeric  verse  the 
wars  of  the  Greeks  with  Darius  and  Xerxes.  The 


*  Aristotle,  Politics,  v.  10,  sec.  20. 


48 


EURIPIDES. 


society  at  King  Archelaus’s  table,  so  richly  furnished 
with  celebrities,  very  probably  resembled  the  better- 
known  assemblages  at  Sans  Souci;  but  we  do  not  read 
that  the  Macedonian  prince  put  on  liis  crown,  as  Freder¬ 
ick  the  Great  did  his  cocked-hat,  when  his  guests, 
Bacclu  plem,  were  becoming  personal,  or  trespassing  on 
the  royal  preserve  of  politics. 

Euripides  did  not  long  enjoy  “  retired  leisure. ”  He 
died  at  Pella  in  the  76th  year  of  his  age,  in  the  year 
406  b.c.,  having,  as  is  supposed,  quitted  Athens  in  408. 
But  his  enemies,  so  far  as  it  lay  with  them,  did  not 
permit  him  to  depart  in  peace,  or  even  in  reputable 
fashion.  One  report,  current  indeed  long  after  his 
decease,  makes  him  to  have  been  torn  to  pieces  by  mas¬ 
tiffs  set  upon  him  by  two  rival  poets,  Arrhidseus  and 
Cratenas ;  another,  that  he  was  killed  by  women  when 
on  his  way  to  keep  an  assignation.  This  bit  of  scandal 
is  probably  an  echo  of  his  ill-repute  at  home  as  a  woman- 
hater;  and  the  story  of  the  mastiffs  may  be  a  disguise 
of  the  fact  that  he  was  “cut  up”  by  Macedonian 
theatrical  critics.  Yet  one  who  had  been  handled  as  he 
was  by  Aristophanes  and  survived,  might  well  have  set 
at  nought  all  dogs,  biped  or  quadruped :  and  as  to  noc¬ 
turnal  trysts,  they  are  seldom  proposed,  or  at  least 
kept,  by  gentlemen  over  threescore  and  ten.*  Far  more 
pleasant  is  it  to  know  that  Sophocles  was  deeply  affected 


*  This  story  of  dogs  and  angry  women  is  indeed  noticed  in 
some  verses  ascribed  to  Sophocles,  who,  as  Schlegel  says,  uttered 
“some  cutting  sayings  against  Euripides.”  To  readers  inter¬ 
ested  in  the  matter,  it  may  be  convenient  to  be  told  that  it  is 
mentioned  by  Athenaeus,  book  xiii.  p.  557.  Against  Sophocles, 
if  the  gossip  collected  by  Plutarch  is  accepted,  there  were  also 
some  “sayings”  of  a  similar  kind,  and  far  ress  creditable  to 
him. 


LIFE  OF  EURIPIDES. 


49 


by  his  death,  and  in  the  next  play  he  produced  forbade 
the  actors  to  wear  crowns  or  their  usual  gorgeous 
dresses.  The  Athenians  were  prone  to  unavailing  re¬ 
gret.  Often  they  would  say  in  their  haste,  “We  are 
betrayed,”  and  banish  or  put  to  death  men  who  had 
served  them  well.  Socrates  had  not  been  dead  many 
years,  before,  with  “woe  that  too  late  repented,”  they 
acknowledged  having  condemned  a  just  man,  and 
turned  rabidly  on  his  accusers  for  misleading  them. 
And  so,  when  Euripides  was  no  more,  they  sent  envoys 
to  Pella  to  bring  home  his  remains.  But  his  host 
Arclielaus  would  not  part  with  them,  and  buried  them 
with  much  pomp  and  circumstance ;  and  his  countrymen 
were  fain  to  content  themselves  with  a  cenotaph  on  the 
road  from  Peiraeus  to  the  city,  and  with  a  bust  or 
statue  of  the  poet,  which  they  placed  in  the  Dionysiac 
theatre.  They, 

“  Slowly  wise  and  meanly  just, 

To  buried  merit  raised  the  tardy  bust;” 

and  they  were  not  the  first,  nor  will  they  be  the  last, 
of  nations,  to  imagine  posthumous  homage  compen¬ 
sation  for  years  of  detraction.  Books  or  furniture 
that  had  belonged  to  Euripides  were  much  sought  for 
and  highly  prized  by  their  possessors;  and  Dionysius 
of  Syracuse,  himself  a  dramatic  poet,  and  not  an  un¬ 
successful  one,  purchased  at  a  high  price  his  tablets 
and  pen,  and  dedicated  them  to  the  Temple  of  the 
Muses  in  his  own  capital.  “They  keep  his  bones  in 
Arqua;”  and  there  was  seemingly,  for  centuries  after 
he  was  quietly  inurned,  a  deep  interest,  and  even  a 
tender  sentiment,  attached  to  his  tomb.  It  was  situated 
near  the  confluence  of  two  rivers,  where  there  appears 
to  have  been  a  house  or  caravansary,  at  which  travelers 


50 


EURIPIDES. 


refreshed  themselves,  attracted  by  the  purity  of  the 
air.  Of  the  rivers,  one  was  noted  for  the  unwholesome 
character  of  its  water.* * * §  From  another  account  it  may 
he  inferred  that  the  tomb  was  much  visited,  even  if 
pilgrimages  were  not  made  to  it.f 

On  his  cenotaph  was  graven  the  following  inscrip¬ 
tion  : 

“  To  Hellas’  bard  all  Hellas  gives  a  tomb: 

On  Macedon’s  far  shores  his  relics  sleep: 

Athens,  the  pride  of  Greece,  was  erst  his  home, 

Whom  now  all  praise  and  all  in  common  weep.”t 

These  lines,  attributed  to  Thucydides  the  historian, 
or  to  Timotheus  the  musician,  are  difficult  to  reconcile 
with  the  caricature-portraits  of  him  by  Aristophanes; 
yet  are  consistent  with  the  opinion  that  it  was  the  con¬ 
servative  party  in  Athens,  and  not  Athenians  generally, 
that  were  hostile  to  him  in  life,  or  to  the  memory  of — 

“  Our  Euripides,  the  human, 

With  his  droppings  of  warm  tears, 

And  his  touches  of  things  common. 

Till  they  rose  to  touch  the  spheres.”  § 

In  one  thing  he  was  happier  than  Sophocles — “op- 
portunitate  mortis” — in  the  priority  of  his  death;  since 
he  lived  not,  as  his  great  rival  did,  long  enough  to  hear 
of  the  sentence  passed  on  the  victorious  generals  at 
Arginusae,  of  the  capture  of  the  Athenian  fleet  at  the 
Goat  River,  and  of  the  utter,  hopeless,  irretrievable 
ruin  of  the  city  he  had  celebrated  so  often  in  immortal 
verse,  admonished  so  wisely,  and  loved  so  well. 


*  Vitruvius,  viii.  c.  3,  “  Mortifera.” 

+  Ammianus,  xxvii.  c.  4. 

X  Translated  by  Mr.  Paley. 

§  Browning,  “  Balaustion,” 


THE  SCENIC  PHILOSOPHER 


51 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE  SCENIC  PHILOSOPHER. 

“  In  all  his  pieces  there  is  the  sweet  human  voice,  the  fluttering 
human  heart.”— Kenelm  Digby. 

Whether  it  were  devised  by  friend  or  foe,  the  title 
of  “Scenic  Philosopher”  for  Euripides  was  given  by 
one  who  had  read  his  writings  attentively.*  His  early 
studies,  his  intercourse  with  Socrates  and  other  philoso¬ 
phers  of  the  time,  encouraged  in  so  contemplative  a 
mind  as  his  habits  of  speculation  on  human  and  divine 
nature,  and  on  such  physical  science  as  then  existed. 
And  as  regarded  dramatic  composition,  he  was  the  first 
to  bring  philosophy  on  the  stage.  The  sublime  and 
gloomy  genius  of  iEschylus  was  far  more  active  than 
contemplative.  His  sentences  are  masses  of  concrete 
thought,  when  he  descends  from  mere  passion  or  ima¬ 
gination.  Such  inquiries  as  occupied  Euripides  ap¬ 
peared  to  him,  as  they  did  to  Aristophanes,  profane,  or 
at  the  best  idle,  curiosity.  To  JSschylus,  the  new 
rulers  of  Olympus,  and  the  Titans  they  supplanted, 
were  persons  as  real  as  Miltiades  or  Tliemistocles.  To 
him,  Olympus  was  but  a  yet  more  august  court  of 
Areopagus,  and  Fates  and  Furies  were  dread  realities, 
not  metaphysical  abstractions.  Sophocles  lived  for  art: 
in  his  devotion  to  it,  and  in  the  unruffled  calmness  of 
his  temper,  he  was  an  Hellenic  Goethe;  one,  the  central 
fire  of  whose  genius,  while  it  glowed  under  all  he  wrote, 


*  It  appears  as  an  accepted  title  in  Vitruvius’s  work  on  Archi¬ 
tecture,  book  viii. 


52 


mmpiDEB. 


rarely  disturbed  the  equanimity  of  his  spirit.  Moral  or 
theological  problems  vexed  him  not.  He  cared  not  for 
the  physics  of  Anaxagoras.  Protagoras’s  sceptical  dis¬ 
quisitions  touched  him  no  nearer  than  Galileo’s  dis¬ 
coveries  touched  Shakespeare,  or  Hume’s  Essays  Samuel 
Johnson.  The  Jupiter  of  Sophocles  was  the  Jupiter  of 
Phidias;  his  Pallas  Athene,  the  living  counterpart  of 
her  image  on  the  Acropolis.  In  abstaining  from  such 
questions,  he  and  HSschylus  were  perhaps  wiser  than 
Euripides — considered  as  an  artist— was  in  his  fondness 
for  them.  Had  Shakespeare  been  deeply  versed  in 
Roger  Bacon’s  works,  or  in  those  of  Aquinas,  his  plays 
would  not  have  been  better,  and  might  have  been  worse, 
for  such  physical  or  metaphysical  studies.  Entertain¬ 
ments  of  the  stage  are  meant  for  the  many  rather  than 
for  the  few;  and  subjects  that  the  many,  if  they  listen 
to  them  at  all,  can  scarcely  fail  to  misinterpret,  it  is 
safer,  as  well  as  more  artistic,  to  avoid. 

'There  were,  however,  at  the  time  when  Euripides 
was  writing  for  the  theatre,  especially  after  he  had 
passed  middle  age,  changes  silently  at  work  in  Athens 
that  rendered  contact  between  poets  and  philosophers 
almost  unavoidable.  The  rapid  growth  of  speculative 
and  rhetorical  studies  in  the  age,  and  perhaps  with  the 
sanction,  of  Pericles,  has  already  been  noticed.  The 
understanding,  hardly  affected  by  the  simple  training 
of  the  young  in  the  iEschylean  period,  had  become, 
fifty  years  later,  the  primary  aim  of  liberale  ducation. 
Pie  who  could  recite  the  whole  Iliad  or  Odyssey  was 
now  looked  upon,  when  compared  with  an  acute 
rhetorician,  as  little  better  than  a  busy  idler— all  very 
well,  perhaps,  for  enlivening  the  guests  at  a  formal 
supper,  or  entertaining  a  loitering  group  in  the  streets. 
Even  fodls  have  sometimes  portentous  memories,  but 


THE  SCENIC  PHILOSOPHER, 


S3 


no  fool  could  handle  adroitly  the  weapons  of  a  sound 
logician.  Man  was  born  to  be  something  better  than  a 
parrot  ;  he  was  meant  to  cultivate  and  to  use  “  discourse  of 
reason.”  To  argue  logically  upon  almost  any  premises, — 
to  have  words  at  command,  to  be  ready  in  reply,  fertile 
in  objection,  averse  from  granting  propositions,  to  pos¬ 
sess  much  general  knowledge,  were  accomplishments 
which  no  well-educated  young  Athenian,  aspiring  to 
make  a  figure  in  public,  could  do  without.  The  imagi¬ 
native  epoch  of  ^Eschylus  was  departing,  the  scientific 
epoch  of  Aristotle  was  approaching,  and  the  analytical 
stamp  of  Euripides’s  mind,  great  as  its  poetical  force 
was,  complied  with  those  tendencies  of  the  time. 

In  thus  reflecting  the  spirit  of  the  age,  Euripides  only 
did  what  others  before  him  had  done,  and  what  great 
poets  will  ever  continue  to  do : 

“  In  ancient  days  the  name 
Of  poet  and  of  prophet  was  the  same.’ 

the  genuine  poet  being  always  in  advance  of  his  fellow- 
men,  and  therefore  frequently  misunderstood  or  under¬ 
valued  by  them.  The  era  of  Dante  is  as  deeply  stamped, 
both  on  his  prose  and  verse,  as  if  he  had  designed 
to  portray  it.  He  belonged  partly  to  a  period 
that  was  passing  away,  and  partly  to  one  that  was 
near  at  hand.  Trained  in  the  lore  of  the  schoolmen, 
he  has  something  in  common  with  Duns  Scotus  and 
the  Master  of  Sentences;  while  by  his  homage  to 
Virgil  and  Statius,  he  anticipated  in  his  tastes  the 
revival  of  classical  literature.  Milton,  affected  by  the 
influence  of  Jonson  and  Fletcher,  composed  in  his 
youth  a  masque  and  songs  of  Arcady;  in  his  mature 
manhood,  the  serious  and  severe  Independent  is  mani¬ 
fest  in  all  he  wrote.  Schiller  is  the  herald  of  a  revolt!- 


54 


mnmnm 


tionary  period,  impatient  of  and  discontented  with  the 
present.  Pope,  in  his  moral  essays  and  satires,  repre¬ 
sents  a  time  when  sense  and  decorum  ranked  among 
the  cardinal  virtues,  and  when  loftier  and  more  robust 
forms  of  imagination  or  faith  were  accounted  extrava¬ 
gances.  To  this  general  law  Euripides  was  no  excep¬ 
tion.  He  went  before  them,  and  so  was  misinterpreted 
by  mSny  among  whom  he  lived.  Within  half  a  cen¬ 
tury  after  his  death,  his  name  stood  foremost  on  the  roll 
of  Greek  dramatic  poets.  If  not  a  deeper,  a  more  genial 
spirit — a  spirit  we  constantly  meet  with  in  Euripidean 
plays — had  superseded  the  grim  theology  of  the  Mara- 
tlionian  period;  stage-poetry  was  indeed  shorn  of  some 
of  its  grandeur,  but  it  gained,  in  recompense  for  what 
it  lost,  profounder  human  feelings. 

That  the  Athenian  theatre  was  not  only  a  national 
but  a  religious  institution,  and  to  what  extent  and  in 
what  particulars  it  was  so,  has  already  been  told  in  the 
volume  of  this  series  assigned  to  AEschylus.  There 
had  been,  however,  after  the  Persian  had  been  hum¬ 
bled  and  Hellas  secured  and  exalted,  a  silent  change  in 
the  faith  of  the  Athenian  people,  as  well  as  in  their 
mental  training.  As  years  rolled  on  over  their  reno¬ 
vated  city,  though  the  forms  of  their  myths  and 
legends  were  retained,  living  belief  in  them  was  on 
the  wane.  They  were  accepted  as  respectable  tradi¬ 
tions,  and  when  they  recorded  the  brave  deeds  of  their 
forefathers,  were  jealously  cherished,  but  no  longer 
regarded  with  awe  or  exempted  from  innovation.  In 
the  time  of  Euripides  there  had  appeared  an  historian, 
or  perhaps  more  properly  a  chronicler — a  man  of  much 
faith  and  honest  piety,  and  yet  one  who  scrupled  not 
to  canvass  the  credibility  of  tale  and  tradition,  and 
sometimes  even  to  find  a  secular  explanation  fdr 


THE  SCENIC  PHILOSOPHER. 


55 


spiritual  doctrines.  Herodotus,  as  well  as  Euripides, 
was  under  the  influence  of  the  age,  though  lie*  usually 
apologizes  for  his  doubts.  Yet  doubt  he  did.  The 
Father  of  History,  no  less  than  the  pupil  of  Anaxa¬ 
goras,  disbelieved  in  the  baneful  effects  of  an  eclipse, 
and  had,  for  his  time,  very  fair  notions  of  geography; 
and  if  he  thought  that  the  gods  envy  human  greatness, 
and  sooner  or  later  punish  the  pride  of  man,  his  faith, 
as  contrasted  with  that  of  Phrynicus  and  iEscliylus, 
was  feeble,  and  his  view  of  Destiny  and  the  Benign 
Deities  savored  more  of  habit  than  earnest  conviction. 
In  such  matters  the  beginning  of  distrust  is  the  dawn 
of  a  rationalistic  epoch.  The  ancient  faith  of  the 
Athenians  in  the  names  and  acts  of  their  founders  is  on 
a  par  with  that  in  the  once  accredited  tale  of  Brutus 
and  other  Trojans  settling  in  Britain;  or  of  Joseph  of 
Arimathea  planting  the  first  shoot  of  the  holy  thorn 
at  Glastonbury.  Joseph  and  Brutus,  like  Cecrops 
and  Erectheus,  have  vanished  from  history,  and  nothing 
except  the  genius  of  a  poet  could  recall  from  the 
shades  and  clothe  with  living  interest  King  Arthur  and 
the  Knights  of  the  Round  Table.  Readers  will  perhaps 
pardon  a  short  digression,  if  it  tend  to  throw  light  on 
the  dramatic  art  of  Euripides,  when  contrasted  with 
that  of  iEschylus;  or  rather,  on  a  change  that  took 
place  in  the  taste  of  their  respective  audiences. 

The  story  of  Orestes,  in  the  handling  of  which 
^Escliylus  and  Sophocles  stand  farthest  apart  from 
Euripides,  is  chosen  as  perhaps  the  most  striking 
instance  of  the  struggle  between  old  faith  and  new 
rationalism,  as  exhibited  in  the  Athenian  drama.  To 
the  elder  of  these  poets  the  symbolisms  of  the  legend 
were  perfectly  clear.  Apollo,  a  purifying  and  avenging 


56 


EURIPIDES. 


god,  prescribes  the  duty  and  the  mode  of  retribution, 
and  protects  the  avengers  of  blood.  After  the  com¬ 
mand  has  been  issued  to  visit  the  death  of  Agamem¬ 
non  on  his  murderers,  Pylades,  in  the  legend,  though 
almost  a  mute  person  in  the  drama,  is  Apollo’s  prin¬ 
cipal  agent  in  nerving  Orestes  to  the  execution  of 
his  dreadful  task.  Pylades  was  a  Crisean  by  descent. 
Now,  from  the  Homeric  hymn  to  Apollo,  it  appears 
that  the  original  Pythian  temple  was  in  the  domain  of 
the  town  of  Crisa.  At  Crisa  Orestes  dwelt  as  an  exile; 
and  it  is  from  that  town  that,  accompanied  by  his 
monitor,  the  destined  avenger  set  forth  on  his  errand 
to  Mycenee.  The  near  connection  between  Pylades  and 
Apollo  is  implied  also  in  the  belief  that  he  was  the 
founder  of  the  Amphictyonic  Council  which  was  held 
at  Delphi.  In  the  “  Eumenides”  he  does  not  appear; 
his  function  ceased  when,  in  the  “  Libation  Bearers,  ” 
Clytemnestra  and  her  paramour  had  paid  the  penalty  of 
their  crime :  but  in  the  latter  play,  it  is  the  reproach 
of  Pylades  which  screws  to  the  sticking-point  the  failing 
courage  of  Orestes. 

Sophocles  had  studied  the  same  old  legend.  In  his 
“Electra,”  the  bearer  of  the  false  intelligence  that 
Orestes  has  been  killed  in  the  chariot-race  at  the 
Pythian  games  reports  himself  as  sent  by  Phanoteus, 
the  Phocian,  a  friend  of  Clytemnestra,  and  so  a  likely 
person  to  apprise  her  that  she  need  no  longer  live  in 
dread  of  her  son.  Now  this  Phanoteus  is  no  other 
than  a  foe,  though  a  brother,  of  Crisus,  the  father  of 
Strophius,  and  grandfather  of  Pylades.  Like  Oros- 
manes  and  Ahriman,  the  brothers — Strophius  and 
Phanoteus — dwelt  in  hostile  regions :  the  former  in  the 
bright  and  cheerful  city  of  Crisa,  where  the  sun-god 
had  his  first  temple;  the  latter  in  another  Crisa,  a 


THE  SCENIC  PHILOSOPHER. 


57 


dark  and  dreary  spot,  where  Apollo's  enemies,  giants 
or  gigantic  warriors — Tityus,  Autolvcus,  Phorbas, 
and  the  Phlegyans — had  their  abode.  Agamemnon’s 
children  accordingly  look  to  Strophius  for  the  coming 
avenger;  iEgistlius  and  Clytemnestra  to  Phanoteus  for 
timely  warning  of  his  approach.* 

It  is  not  necessary  to  probe  further  the  original 
legend.  Enough  has  been  shown  to  prove  that 
iEschylus  and  Sophocles  wove  into  their  Orestean 
story  portions  of  it,  and  therefore  thought  it  suitable 
for  their  tragedies.  Euripides,  on  the  contrary,  seems 
to  have  quite  neglected  it.  He  makes,  indeed,  Pylades 
a  Delphian,  but  by  banishing  him  from  his  country, 
after  the  work  of  retribution  is  complete,  he  severs  the 
links  of  the  symbolic  story. 

Is  there  any  improbability  in  supposing  Euripides,  a 
man  of  the  new  era,  to  have  viewed  the  grim  though 
picturesque  stories  of  the  old  and  waning  times  as 
inconsistent  with  the  bright,  free,  and  intelligent 
Athens  in  which  he  dwelt?  The  pupil  of  Anaxagoras 
and  Prodicus  might  well  regard  a  people  as  little 
beyond  the  verge  of  barbarism  for  whom  the  priest  was 
the  philosopher,  whose  neroes  yet  strove  with  wild 
beasts,  who  trembled  at  the  phenomena  of  nature, 
and  among  whom  ignorance  generally  prevailed.  And 
among  such  a  people  it  was  that  the  legends  were 
created  and  cherished.  Imagination  was  strong, 
while  reason  was  weak;  but  did  it  therefore  follow 
that  men  capable  of  reason  should  always  remain 
children?  Perhaps  some  insight  into  the  feelings  of 


*  These  remarks  on  the  symbolism  in  the  Oresetan  legend  are 
taken,  greatly  abridged,  from  K.  O.  Muller’s  “  Essay  on  the 
‘Eumenides  ’  of  Alschylus,”  p.  131,  English  translation. 


58 


EURIPIDES. 


Euripides  on  theological  questions  may  be  gleaned 
from  the  story  of  Socrates,  who,  while  scrupulously 
worshipping  the  gods  of  the  state,  made  no  secret  that 
he  regarded  them  as  little  more  than  masks — nay,  often 
as  unworthy  disguises — of  the  divine  nature.  For  the 
opinions  of  the  philosopher,  the  reader  is  referred  to 
the  volume  of  this  series  in  which  the  writings  of 
Xenophon  are  treated  of.  There  is,  however,  a  remark¬ 
able  passage  in  Plato’s  dialogue  entitled  “Phaedo,”in 
which  Socrates  enumerates  as  one  among  the  boons 
death  will  confer  on  him,  the  privilege  he  will  have, 
when  he  has  shaken  off  this  mortal  coil,  of  knowing 
better  the  great  gods,  and  of  seeing  them  with  a  clear¬ 
ness  of  vision  unattainable  by  mortals  on  earth.  Euri¬ 
pides,  on  his  side,  may  have  held  it  to  be  part  of  a 
poet’s  high  position  to  hint,  if  not  to  expound  formally 
to  his  hearers,  that  the  deities  whom  the  tragedians 
represented  as  severe,  revengeful,  and  relentless  beings, 
were  merciful  as  well  as  just, — that  the  humanity  of 
Prometheus  was  at  least  as  divine  as  the  tyranny  of 
Jupiter,  or  the  feuds  and  caprices  of  Apollo  and 
Artemis.  It  was,  perchance,  among  the  offences  given 
by  Euripides  to  the  comic  poets,  that  his  spiritual  and 
intangible  god  could  not,  like  Neptune,  Iris,  Hercules, 
or  Bacchus,  be  parodied  by  them  on  the  stage.  The 
idols  of  the  temple  were  by  the  vulgar  esteemed  true 
portraits  of  the  beings  whom  they  affected  to  revere, 
but  at  whom  they  were  always  ready  to  laugh.  Nep¬ 
tune  and  Hercules,  in  the  comedy  of  the  “  Birds”  of 
Aristophanes,  .might  be  bribed  by  savory  meats, 
or  hide  themselves  under  an  umbrella  ;  but  the  ‘‘great 
gods”  whom  the  pious  Socrates  yearned  to  behold  were 
beyond  the  reach,  and  perhaps  the  comprehension,  of  the 
satirist. 


THE  SCENIC  PHILOSOPHER. 


59 


We  can  afford  only  to  hint  that  the  poet’s  religious 
opinions,  so  far  as  they  can  be  gathered  from  his 
writings,  may  easily  have  been  misconstrued  by  men 
of  the  time,  who  appear  to  have  had  other  motives 
also  for  disliking  him.  The  singularity  of  his  habits 
may  have  been  one  reason  for  their  distaste  of  his 
opinions.  If,  as  is  possible,  he  belonged  to  none  of 
the  political  factions  of  his  time — neither  a  Cleonite, 
nor  a  partisan  of  Nicks,  nor  a  hanger-on  of  the 
gracious-mannered  and  giddy  Alcibiades — here  may 
have  been  a  rock  of  offence.  “Depend  upon  it,  my 
Plieidippides,  no  man  of  such  odd  ways  as  the  son 
of  Mnesarchus  can  be  sound  in  morals  or  politics. 
Folks  that  shut  themselves  up  have  something  in 
them  wrong  requiring  seclusion.”  Perhaps  a  brief 
inquiry  into  his  views  on  some  matters  may  help  to 
a  better  understanding  of  his  opinions  generally. 
Was  he  a  bad  citizen,  as  many  reputed  him  to  be? 
Was  he  a  woman-hater  to  the  extent  he  is  accused 
of  being,  and  beyond  the  provocation  given  by  his 
wives?  What  were  his  notions  about  the  condition 
and  treatment  of  slaves?  Can  we  discover  from  his 
writings  how  he  thought  or  voted  in  politics?  Was 
he  an  idle  dreamer?  Was  he  a  home-bred  Diagoras 
of  Melos,  only  less  respectable,  because  less  courageous, 
than  that  open  scoffer?  Bad  taste  he  may  have  had, 
but  it  does  not  follow  that  he  was  therefore  a  bad 
man. 

The  charge  of  being  a  bad  citizen  scarcely  accords 
with  the  political  opinions  of  Euripides,  so  far  as  they 
can  be  inferred  from  his  plays.  A  similar  accusation  has 
been  brought  against  Plato;  and  both  the  one  and  the 
other  may  have  proceeded  from  similar  causes.  Neither 
the  poet  nor  the  philosopher  took  part  in  public  affairs, 


60 


EURIPIDES. 


or  held,  so  far  as  we  know,  office  under  the  state.  By 
the  speech-loving  Athenians,  for  whom  the  law  courts 
and  the  assembly  of  the  people  were  theatres  open  all 
the  year  round,  this  was  regarded  as  an  odious  singu¬ 
larity,  if  not  a  grave  neglect  of  civic  duty.  Socrates, 
meditative  as  he  was,  could  strike  a  good  blow  in  the 
field  when  required,  and  filled  an  office  under  the 
thirty  tyrants  with  credit  to  himself.  Euripides  and 
Plato  may  fairly  have  thought  the  public  had  advisers 
enough  and  to  spare — that  a  good  citizen  could  serve 
his  country  with  his  pen  or  his  lectures. as  effectively 
as  by  becoming  one  of  the  clamorous  demagogues  who 
grew  under  every  hedge.  It  will  hardly  be  denied  that 
the  patriarch  of  the  Academy  strengthened  the  founda¬ 
tions  or  enlarged  the  boundaries  of  moral  science.  Is 
the  poet  quite  disentitled  to  a  similar  concession?  Has 
any  stage-poet,  if  we  except  Shakespeare,  supplied  mor¬ 
alists  and  philosophers  with  more  grave  or  shrewd 
maxims  than  he  has  done?  Has  any  ancient  poet  taken 
wider  or  more  liberal  views  of  humanity? 

Again,  the  scenic  philosopher  was  reputed  unsound 
in  his  theology;  and  this,  no  doubt,  is  an  offence  in 
every  well-regulated  community.  Without  going  beyond 
the  bounds  of  England,  we  find  that  it  was  no  want  of 
will  on  the  part  of  their  opponents  that  saved  Chilling- 
worth,  Hobbes,  or  even  John  Locke,  from  something 
akin  to  the  cup  of  hemlock  tendered  to  Socrates.  Many 
thousands  of  honest  English  householders  accounted 
Milton  a  heretic,  a  traitor,  and  a  man  of  evil  life  and 
conversation.  To  allow  our  view  of  his  character  to  be 
biassed  by  a  person’s  opinions  is  not  a  discovery  of  mod¬ 
ern  times.  It  was  by  no  means  prudent  for  any  one 
residing  in  Athens  to  be  wiser  than  his  neighbors  in 
physical  science,  or  to  speak  or  write  of  the  gods  other* 


THE  SCENIC  PHILOSOPHEB. 


61 


wise  than  custom  sanctioned.  The  most  orthodox  of 
spectators  at  the  theatre  was  justly  shocked  by  being 
told  that  the  gods  he  had  no  scruples  about  laughing  at 
in  the  “Frogs”  or  “Birds”  of  Aristophanes,  were  really 
little  more  than  men’s  inventions — caricatures  rather 
than  portraits  of  the  Deity  as  contemplated  by  the 
philosopher.  Why  could  not  these  dreamers  be  content 
with  the  gods  that  satisfied  Solon  the  wise,  or  Aristides 
the  just?  And  under  every  class  of  these  offences 
Euripides  seems  to  have  come.  He  was  neither  a  useful 
citizen  nor  a  sound  believer;  he  meddled  with  matters 
too  high  for  him;  the  heresies  he  had  imbibed  in  youth 
from  Anaxagoras  clung  to  him  in  riper  years;  and,  like 
his  tutor,  he  deserved  a  decree  of  exile  at  least.  He  was 
a  proud  fellow,  and  thought  himself  too  clever  or  too 
good  for  mixed  society.  He  read  much — he  talked 
little;  and  was  that  proper  conduct  in  an  Athenian?  In 
an  evil  hour  came  the  Sophists  to  Athens,  and  it  was 
with  Sophists  alone  that  Euripides  delighted  to  consort. 
So  reasoned  the  vulgar,  after  the  wisdom  that  was  in 
them,  and  so  they  will  reason  unto  the  end  of  time. 
There  can,  however,  be  no  doubt  that  Euripides  in  his 
heart  despised  the  popular  religion.  He  could  not 
accept  traditional  belief:  his  masters  in  philosophy  had 
trained  him  to  think  for  himself;  and  with  his  strong 
sympathy  for  his  fellow-men,  he  strove,  ineffectually 
indeed,  to  deliver  them,  as  he  had  been  delivered  himself, 
from  the  bondage  of  custom,  from  apathy  or  ignorance. 
Compelled,  by  the  laws  that  regulated  scenic  exhibi¬ 
tions,  to  deal  with  the  gods  as  the  state  prescribed,  or 
the  multitude  required,  he  could  only  insinuate,  not 
openly  proclaim,  his  opinions,  either  on  politics  or  reli¬ 
gion.  Yet  if  unsocial,  he  was  not  timid,  and  it  is  really 
with  extraordinary  boldness  that  he  attacks  soothsayers 


62 


EURIPIDES 


in  bis  plays.  He  puts  into  the  mouth  of  the  ingenuous 
Achilles — then  a  youth  whose  heart  had  not  been 
hardened  by  war — the  following  attack  on  Calchas  the 
seer: 

“  His  lustral  lavers  and  his  salted  cakes 
With  sorrow  shall  the  prophet  Calchas  bear: 

Away !  The  prophet !— what  is  he  ?  a  man 

Who  speaks  ’mongst  many  falsehoods  but  few  truths, 

Whene  er  chance  leads  him  to  speak  true;  when  false, 

The  prophet  is  no  more.” 

In  the  “Electra”  Orestes  says  that  he  believes  Apollo 
will  justify  his  oracle,  but  that  he  deems  lightly  of  hu¬ 
man — that  is,  of  professional — prophecies.  Perhaps  his 
disiike  of  prophets  may  have  received  new  edge  and 
impulse  from  the  mischief  done  by  them  in  encouraging 
by  their  idle  predictions  the  Athenians  to  undertake  the 
expedition  to  Sicily.  And  a  time  was  at  hand  when  the 
dupes  of  the  soothsayers  viewed  their  pretensions  with 
as  small  favor  as  Euripides  himself  did.  Deep  was  the 
wrath  in  the  woe-stricken  city,  when  the  worst  reports 
of  the  destruction  of  their  fleet  and  army  at  Syracuse 
were  confirmed  by  eye-witnesses,  against  the  orators 
who  had  advised;  and  the  oracle-mongers  and  prophets 
who  had  guaranteed,  the  success  of  that  disastrous  ex¬ 
pedition.  * 

There  was,  indeed,  much  in  the  Homeric  theology 
that,  however  well  suited  to  the  artist,  was  intolera¬ 
ble  to  the  philosopher.  The  gods  themselves  were 
criminals,  and  Euripides  made  no  secret  that  he 
thought  them  so.  ''He  could  not,”  says  K.  O.  M  tiller, 

‘  bring  his  philosophical  convictions  into  harmony 
with  the  contents  of  the  old  legends,  nor  could  he 


♦  Thucydides,  j. 


THE  SCENIC  PHILOSOPHER. 


63 


pass  over  their  incongruities.”  Yet  far  advanced  as 
he  was  beyond  his  time,  the  time  itself  was  not  quite 
unprogressive.  iEschylus,  who  belonged  to  an  earlier 
generation,  and  Sophocles,  who  avoided  every  disturb¬ 
ing  force  as  perilous  to  the  composure  of  art,  accepted 
the  Homeric  deities  as  they  found  them.  Nevertheless 
faith  in  them  was  in  the  sear  and  yellow  leaf,  and  the 
reverence  that  should  accompany  old  age  was  nearly 
worn  out.  The  court  of  Areopagus  in  Athens  was, 
without  any  similar  external  violence,  sharing  the  fate 
of  our  High  Commission  Court  in  the  seventeenth  cen¬ 
tury.  It  no  longer  took  cognizance  of  every  slight 
offence  against  religion;  it  consulted  its  own  safety  by 
letting  the  gods,  in  many  instances,  look  after  their  own 
affairs.  Euripides  was  at  the  most  a  pantheist.  He 
believed  in  the  unity  of  God,  in  His  providence,  His 
omnipotence,  His  justice,  His  care  for  human  beings. 
Supreme  mind  or  intelligence  was  his  Jupiter — the 
destroyer  of  the  Typhon,  unreasoning  faith,  hi3 
Apollo.  Aristophanes,  who  professed  to  believe,  and 
not  Euripides,  who  professed  to  doubt,  was  the  real 
scoffer. 

There  is  space  for  only  a  few  samples  of  the  moral 
opinions  of  Euripides.  Shakespeare’s  reputation  with 
posterity  might  have  fared  very  scurvily  had  there 
been  a  great  comic  poet  among  his  detractors,  opposed 
to  him  in  theology  or  politics,  or  jealous  of  the  company 
kept  by  him  at  the  Mermaid.  Only  impute  to  the 
author  personally  the  sentiments  he  ascribes  to  Iago, 
Iachimo,  Kicliard  of  Gloucester,  Edmund  in  “Lear,”  or 
Lady  Macbeth, — refer  to  .certain  things  connected  with 
his  marriage  or  his  poaching, — and  the  purest  in  morals 
as  well  as  the  loftiest  in  thought  of  our  own  scenic  poets 
would  have  made  as  poor  a  figure  as  Euripides  did  in 


64 


EURIPIDES. 


his  time,  whether  it  were  on  the  grounds  of  his  creed, 
liis  civic  character,  or  his  private  life  and  conversa¬ 
tion.  “Envied  says  Chaucer,  in  his  “Legende  of 
Good  Women,” 

/ 

“Is  lavender  to  the  court  alway, 

For  she  ne  parteth  neither  night  ne  day 
Out  of  the  .house  of  Caesar 

$nd  the  envy  of  one  generation  becomes  with  the 
credulous  the  fact  of  another.  “In  the  first  place,”  as 
Mr.  Paley  most  justly  observes,  “many  of  his  senti¬ 
ments  which  may  be  said  to  wear  an  equivocal  com¬ 
plexion,  as  the  famous  one, — 

“If  the  tongue  swore,  the  heart  abides  unsworn,”— 

have  been  misconstrued  as  undermining  the  very  foun¬ 
dations  of  honor  and  virtue.  They  are  assumed  to  be 
general  statements,  whereas  they  really  have  only  a- 
special  reference  to  existing  circumstances,  or  are  at 
least  susceptible  of  important  modifications.  ”  The  same 
may  be  said  of  a  verse  of  Euripides  that  Julius  Csesar 
was  fond  of  quoting; — 

• 

“  If  ever  to  do  ill  be  good,  ’tis  for  a  crown; 

For  that  ’tis  lawful  to  push  right  aside: 

In  other  things  let  virtue  be  the  guide.” 

But  the  Roman  perverted  to  his  own  ends  a  sentiment 
well  suited  to  the  character — a  false  and  violent  one — 
of  the  speaker,  Eteocles.* 

Some  injury  has  been  done  to  Euripides  by  the 
abundance  of  fragments  from  his  plays  that  are  pre- 


*  Phoenician  Women,  v.  573. 


THE  SCENIC  PHILOSOPHER 


65 


Served.  Undoubtedly  many  of  these  “  wear  an  equivo¬ 
cal  complexion,” — as,  for  example — 

“What  must  be  done  by  mortals  may  be  done;” 

or — 

“  Nor  shameful  aught  unless  one  deem  it  so;” 

but  we  know  not  the  speakers  of  the  words,  nor  the 
circumstances  under  which  they  were  spoken. 

What  are  the  proofs  of  an  often-repeated  assertion 
that  Euripides  was  a  sensual  poet?  On  the  score  of 
indecency  the  comic  poets  are  rather  damaging  wit¬ 
nesses — to  themselves.  Have  the  Germans,  have  we 
ourselves,  no  poets  infinitely  more  culpable  in  this 
respect  than  Euripides?  A  very  third-rate  contributor 
to  the  English  drama  of  the  seventeenth  and  eighteenth 
centuries  would  the  Greek  poet  have  been,  had  he  writ¬ 
ten.  nothing  worse  than  we  find  in  his  extant  plays  or 
the  fragments  of  his  lost  ones.  And  on  this  delicate 
question  we  have  a  most  unexceptionable  witness  in  his 
favor — no  less  a  person  than  the  decent  and  pious  Aris¬ 
tophanes  himself!  The  “Phsedras”  and  “  Sthenebosas” 
of  Euripides,  we  are  told  by  him,  were  dangerous  to 
morals.*  Yet  in  another  of  his  comedies  he  says  that 
in  consequence  of  Euripides’s  plays  women  mended 
their  manners. f  Here,  with  a  vengeance,  has  “a Daniel 
come  to  judgment!” — the  woman-hater,  it  seems,  had 
been  preaching  with  some  success  to  a  female  congrega¬ 
tion.  The  purity  of  the  poet’s  morals,  so  far  as  they 
can  be  inferred  from  his  writings,  is  displayed  in  his 
Hippolytus,  in  the  chaste  Parthenopseus  in  the  “Sup¬ 
pliant  Women,”  in  the  Achilles  of  his  “Iphigenia,”  and 
above  all,  in  the  character  of  the  boy  Ion.  “Conse- 


*“  Frogs,”  1049. 


t  “  Thesmoph.”  398. 


66 


EURIPIDES. 


crated  to  Apollo,  and  devoting  himself  wholly  to  the 
service  of  the  altar,  he  speaks  of  his  patron  god  in  lan¬ 
guage  that  would  not  dishonor  a  better  cause.  One 
cannot  help  feeling  that  the  poet  must  have  been  at 
heart  a  good  man  who  could  make  a  virtuous  asceticism 
appear  in  so  amiable  a  light.”  * 

“Let  me  tell  you,”  says  Councillor  Pleydell,  “that 
Glossin  would  have  made  a  very  pretty  lawyer,  had  he 
not  been  so  inclined  to  the  knavish  side  of  his  profes¬ 
sion.”  It  cannot  be  denied  that  Euripides  has  some 
tendency  of  the  sort.  He  employs  frequently,  and 
seemingly  without  much  compunction,  the  arts  of 
falsehood  and  deceit.  The  tricksters  in  his  tragedy 
are  the  forerunners  of  the  tricksters  of  the  New  Comedy 
— the  “fallax  servus”  of  the  Menandrian  drama.  But 
as  respects  truth,  in  the  modern  import  of  the  word,  the 
morality  of  the  ancients  was  not  that  of  the  moderns. 
The  latter  profess  to  abhor  a  lie;  the  former — more 
prudently  and  consistently  perhaps — made  no  profes¬ 
sions  at  all  on  the  subject.  The  crafty  Ulysses,  rather 
than  the  bold  Achilles,  is  the  type  of  an  Achsean; 
Themistocles,  far  more  than  Aristides,  that  of  an 
Athenian  Greek.  Euripides,  who  represents  men  as 
they  are,  and  not  as  they  ought  to  be,  did  not  disdain  to 
employ  in  his  plays  this  common  feature  of  his  age  and 
nation,  but  in  none  of  them  has  he  depicted  such  a 
thorough-going  scoundrel  as  the  Sophoclean  Ulysses  in 
the  “  Philoctetes.” 

In  what  sense  of  the  word  was  Euripides  a  hater  of 
women — for  that  he  occasionally  spoke  ill  of  them  is 
beyond  doubt?  His  character  is  indeed  a  difficult  one 
to  interpret— on  the  surface  full  of  inconsistencies;  and 


*  Paley,  Preface  to  Euripides. 


THE  SCENIC  PHILOSOPHER, 


67 


seeing  these  only,  it  is  easy  to  understand  why  he  was 
less  revered  than  HSschylus,  less  esteemed  or  beloved 
than  Sophocles.  Below  the  surface,  however,  it  is 
possible  to  discover  a  certain  unity  of  purpose  in  him, 
and  it  is  traceable  in  his  sentiments  on  the  female  sex. 
First,  let  the  position  of  women  among  the  Greeks  in 
general  be  remembered.  They  lived  in  almost  Oriental 
seclusion.  What  was  expected  from  a  good  wife  is 
shown  in  a  very  instructive  passage  of  Xenophon’s 
treatise,  “  The  Economist  or  Householder.” 

Ischomachus,  the  principal  speaker  in  the  dialogue, 
describes  how  he  had  “  trained  his  wife,  at  the  time  he 
espoused  her,  an  inexperienced  girl  of  fourteen,  to  the 
duties  of  her  position.  The  account  that  ensues  of  the 
functions  of  an  Athenian  married  lady  would  be  appli¬ 
cable,  if  we  except  the  greater  restriction  on  her  per¬ 
sonal  liberty,  to  a  hired  housekeeper  of  the  present  day. 
Her  business  is  to  nurse  her  children,  to  maintain  disci¬ 
pline  among  her  slaves;  to  be  diligent  herself  at  her 
web,  in  the  management  of  her  kitchen,  larder,  and 
bakehouse,  and  in  her  care  of  the  furniture,  wardrobe, 
and  household  property  of  all  kinds ;  to  select  a  well- 
qualified  stewardess  to  act  under  herself,  but  to  allow 
no  undue  confidence  in  her  to  interfere  with  her  own 
habits  of  personal  superintendence;  to  remain  continu¬ 
ally  within  doorS;  she  will  find  abundance  of  exercise 
in  her  walks  to  and  from  different  parts  of  the  premises, 
in  dusting  clothes  and  carpets,  and  baking  bread  or 
pastry.”  “From  all  this  it  appears,  that  what  are  now 
considered  essential  qualifications  in  a  married  lady  of 
the  upper  class — presiding  at  her  husband’s  table,  re¬ 
ceiving  his  guests,  or  enlivening  by  her  conversation  his 
hours  of  domestic  retirement — entered  as  little  into  the 
philosopher’s  estimate  of  a  model  wife  as  into  that  of 


68 


EURIPIDES. 


his  countrymen  at  large.  Like  Pericles,  Socrates” — 
and,  we  may  add,  Euripides — “could  appreciate  female 
accomplishments  in  an  Aspasia  or  a  Theodota,”*  but 
hardly  looked  for  them  in  wives  so  trained  and  employed 
as  was  that  of  Ischomaclius. 

If  Euripides  were  generally  a  woman-hater,  he  was  at 
least  not  always  consistent  in  his  aversion.  No  one  of 
the  Athenian  stage-poets  has  written  more  to  the  credit 
of  good  women,  or  more  delicately  or  tenderly  delineated 
female  characters.  For  this  assertion  it  is  sufficient  to 
cite  Polyxena  in  his  “  Hecuba,”  Macaria  in  “  The  Chil¬ 
dren  of  Hercules,”  Evadne  in  “  The  Suppliant  Women,” 
the  sisterly  devotion  of  Electra  in  his  “Orestes,”  Iplii- 
genia  in  both  of  the  plays  bearing  her  name,  and  the 
sublime  self-sacrifice  of  the  noble  and  loving  Alcestis. 
Even  Hecuba  and  Jocasta  are  braver  and  wiser  than  the 
men  about  them,  and  these  old,  afflicted,  and  discrowned 
queens  have  neither  youth  nor  personal  charms  to  rec¬ 
ommend  them.  Phsedra  he  represents  not  as  a  vicious 
woman,  but  as  the  helpless  victim  of  an  irate  deity; 
while  in  the  “Medea”  the  fierce  and  revengeful  heroine 
has  all  our  sympathy,  while  Jasoa  has  all  our  con¬ 
tempt.  \ 

And  if  Euripides  were  reprehensible  for  his  opinions 
on  women,  what  shall  we  say  of  his  antagonist  Aristo- 


*  Colonel  Mure’s  Hist,  of  Greek  Literature,  v.  463. 
t  Adolph  Scholl,  the  author  of  an  excellent  Life  of  Sophocles, 
reminds  his  readers  that  the  very  female  characters  which  Eu¬ 
ripides  is  sometimes  taxed  with  selecting,  because  they  were  par¬ 
ticularly  wicked,  for  his  themes,  were  brought  on  the  stage  by 
Sophocles  in  dramas  now  lost— e.  <7.,  Phsedra,  Sthenebcea,  Ino, 
Medea  often,  iErope,  Althaea,  Eriphyle,  etc. ;  and  he  notices  also 
that  Euripides,  in  many  of  his  dramas,  atoned,  if  there  was  any 
occasion  to  do  so,  for  his  portraits  of  the  bad,  by  his  numerous 
delineations  of  good  women, 


THE  SCENIC  PHILOSOPHER. 


69 


phanes?  Had  the  wives  and  daughters  of  Athens  no 
cause  of  complaint  against  their  caricaturist?  If  the 
pictures  drawn  of  them  in  his  “  Lysistrata”  and  “  Tkes- 
mophoriazusae”  he  not  wholly  fanciful,  what  woman 
sketched  by  Euripides  would  not  be  too  good  for  such 
profligate  companions?  -  The  female  characters  of  So¬ 
phocles  are  perhaps  worthier  of  admiration  than  those 
of  his  rival ;  but  the  pencil  that  traced  Antigone,  Deia- 
nara,  and  Tecmessa,  drew  ideal  heroines:  that  of  Eurip¬ 
ides  painted  human  beings,  creatures  with  strong  pas¬ 
sions,  yet  stronger  affections,  with  a  deep  sense  of  duty, 
of  religion,  as  in  the  instances  of  Theonoe  in  his  “Helen,” 
of  Andromache  and  Antigone  —  women  who  may  be 
esteemed  or  loved,  women  who  walk  the  earth,  sharing 
heroically,  sympathizing  tenderly  with,  the  sorrows  and 
sufferings  of  their  partners  in  affliction.  The  zealous 
champion  of  the  gods  of  the  state  was,  we  have  seen,  an 
arch-scoffer  at  all  loftier  forms  of  belief;  the  satiric  pen 
that  wrote  down  Euripides  as  a  hater  of  women  was 
held  by  the  arch-libeller  of  their  sex.* 

Nor  was  the  humanity  of  the  poet  less  conspicuous  in 

*  Might  not  our  Fletcher  be  fairly  taxed  with  woman-hating  by 
readers  who  pick  out  such  passages  only  as  suit  their  own  views, 
or  ascribe  to  the  author  himself  the  opinions  he  puts  into  the 
mouths  of  his  dramatis  personal?  The  Greek  poet  has  not  writ¬ 
ten  anything  half  so  injurious  to  women  as  the  following  lines 
from  the  “Night-Walker,”  act  ii.  sc.  4: 

“Oh!  I  hate 

Their  noise,  and  do  abhor  the  whole  sex  heartily. 

They  are  all  walking  devils,  harpies.  I  will  study 
A  week  together  how  to  rail  sufficiently 
Upon  ’em  all;  and  that  I  may  be  furnish’t, 

Thou  shalt  buy  all  the  railing  books  and  ballads 
That  malice  has  invented  against  women. 

I  will  study  nothing  else,  and  practise  ’em, 

Till  J  grow  fat  with  curses.” 


70 


EURIPIDES. 


his  feelings  towards  slaves.  And  again  we  have  to  notice 
something  inconsistent  with  his  supposed  austere  dispo¬ 
sition.  We  have  no  reason  for  thinking  that  the  lot  of 
home-bred  or  purchased  slaves  was  particularly  hard  in 
Athens ;  certainly  they  had  there  less  rigorous  masters 
than  the  Spartans  or  Romans  were.  But  there  can  be 
little  doubt  of  the  contempt  with  which  non-Hellenic 
races  were  viewed  by  Greeks  in  general,  or  of  the  broad 
line  they  drew  between  themselves  and  barbarians.  Even 
in  Attica,  the  happiness  or  misery  of  a  bondman  must 
have  depended  in  great  measure  upon  the  disposition  of 
his  owner.  He  might  be  half-starved  or  cruelly  flogged 
— but  no  law  protected  him;  overworked,  without  com¬ 
ment  from  the  neighbors;  tortured,  if  his  evidence  were 
required  in  a  court  of  justice;  cashiered,  when  his  ser¬ 
vices  were  rendered  useless  by  age  or  infirmity.  Eurip¬ 
ides,  if  his  writings  be  in  accordance  with  his  practice, 
anticipated  the  humane  sentiments  of  Seneca  and  the 
younger  Pliny  in  his  consideration  for  this,  at  the  best, 
unhappy  order  of  men.  He  did  not  regard  it  as  the 
mark  of  an  unsound  mind  to  look  on  a  slave  as  a 
human  being.  He  introduces  him  in  his  plays  as  a 
faithful  nurse,  or  an  honest  and  attached  herdsman, 
shepherd,  or  household  servant.  He  endows  him  with 
good  abilities,  and  at  times  shrewd  and  ready  wit,  with 
kindly  affection  to  his  fellows,  and  love  and  loyalty  to 
his  masters.  He  even  goes  almost  to  an  extreme  in 
putting  into  his  mouth  saws,  maxims,  and  opinions 
meet  for  a  philosopher.  He  perceived,  and  he  strove 
to  make  others  perceive,  that  servitude  does  not  neces¬ 
sarily  extinguish  virtue  or  good  sense.  He  left  it  to 
the  comic  poets  to  exhibit  the  slave  as  necessarily 
a  cheating,  lying,  and  sensual  varlet.  He  may  have 
imbibed  from  hi§  friend  $ocw$es  gome  of  bis  bqmaiie 


THE  SCENIC  PHILOSOPHER. 


71 


notions  on  women  or  slaves,  or  be  may  have  forestalled 
them;  or,  which  is  quite  as  possible,  have  reflected  in 
his  dramas  a  liberal  feature  of  the  time  fostered  alike 
by  the  poet  and  the  philosopher. 

The  feelings  of  slaves  towards  a  kind  and  gracious 
mistress  are  thus  described  in  the  “Alcestis.”  She, 
immediately  after  bidding  the  last  farewell  to  her 
children,  takes  leave  of  her  servants: 

“  All  of  the  household  servants  wept  as  well, 

Moved  to  compassion  for  their  mistress:  she 
Extended  her  right  hand  to  all  and  each, 

And  there  was  no  one  of  such  low  degree 

She  spoke  not  to,  nor  had  an  answer  from.”— (B.) 

And  again,  in  the  same  play,  the  slave  appointed  to 
wait  on  Hercules  thus  expresses  himself: 

“  Neither  was  it  mine 
To  follow  in  procession,  nor  stretch  forth 
Hand,  wave  my  lady  deal  a  last  farewell, 

Lamenting  who  to  me  and  all  of  us 
Domestics  was  a  mother:  myriad  harms 
She  used  to  ward  away  from  every  one, 

And  mollify  her  husband’s  ireful  mood.”— (B.) 

The  messenger,  a  slave,  in  the  “Orestes,”  thus  recounts 
to  Electra  his  loyalty  to  her  family: 

“  Hither  I  from  the  country  came,  and  entered 
The  gates,  solicitous  to  hear  the  doom 
Of  thee  and  of  Orestes;  for  thy  sire 
I  ever  loved,  and  in  thy  house  was  nurtured. 

True,  I  am  poor,  yet  not  the  less  am  loyal 
To  those  who  have  been  kind  to  me  of  yore.” 

—(Alford.) 

Connected  perhaps  with  his  sympathy  with  women  and 
an  oppressed  class  of  men  is  his  practice  of  bringing  on 
the  scene  young  children.  He  puts  them  in  situations 
that  cannot  fail  to  have  touched  the  hearts  of  a  sus 


TO 


EURIPIDES. 


ceptible  people.  In  the  “Iphigenia  in  Aulis,”  the  in¬ 
fant  Orestes  is  employed  to  work  on  Agamemnon’s 
parental  love.  The  little  sons  of  Alcestis  add  to  the 
pathos  of  her  parting  words.  In  the  “  Trojan  Women,'* 
a  drama  of  weeping  and  lamentation  nearly  “ail  com¬ 
pact,”  the  fate  of  Astyanax  is  the  most  touching  incident. 
In  the  “Andromache,”  the  little  Molossus  is  held  up 
by  his  great-grandsire  Peleus  in  order  that  he  may 
loosen  the  cords  by  which  his  mother’s  hands  are  bound. 
Maternal  love  adds  a  human  element  to  the  wild  and 
whirling  passion  of  Medea.  Racine,  who  profoundly 
studied  Euripides,  did  not  neglect  this  device  for  pro¬ 
ducing  emotion.  In  his  “  Audromaque,”  Astyanax  is 
made  to  contribute  to  the  pity  of  the  scene,  although 
the  etiquette  of  the  French  stage  did  not  permit  of  his 
appearing  on  it.  Did  this  innovation — if  it  were  one — 
take  its  rise  from  a  practice  not  uncommon  in  the  law 
courts,  for  defendants  to  appeal  to  the  mercy  of  the 
jurors  by  exhibiting  their  wives  and  children  ?  Whether 
the  courts  borrowed  it  from  the  theatre,  or  the  theatre 
from  the  courts,  such  a  display,  however  foreign  to  our 
notions  of  the  sobriety  of  justice,  indicates  a  kind,  if 
not  an  equitable,  feeling  in  the  audience,  and  one 
which  the  advocate  of  the  slave  would  share  with 
them. 

We  must  now  dismiss  the  scenic  philosopher,  trust¬ 
ing  that  some  of  the  facts,  if  not  the  arguments,  ad¬ 
duced  on  his  behalf,  may  prevail  with  English  readers 
so  far  as  to  lead  them  to  take  a  more  favorable  view  of 
his  character  than  has  been  given  in  some  ancient  or 
modern  accounts  of  it.  Had  he  been  less  philosophic, 
he  would  probably  have  been  more  successful  at  the 
time,  and  less  obvious  to  critical  shafts  then  and  after¬ 
wards.  Yet  that  so  many  of  his  works  should  have 


ALCESTIS. 


>73 

been  preserved,  can  scarcely  have  been  a  mere  accident. 
Some  attraction  or  charm  there  was  in  them  that 
touched  the  heart  of  Hellas  from  its  eastern  to  its  wes¬ 
tern  border,  and  so  held  above  water  a  fourth  at  least 
of  his  writings,  when  the  deluge  of  barbarism  or  bigo¬ 
try  swept  away  so  many  thousands  of  Greek  dramas, 
and  among  them  some  that  had  borne  off  the  crown 
from  iEschylus  or  Sophocles.  “  Sunt  lacriraee  rerum, 
et  mentem  mortalia  tangunt.”  The  very  tenderness  of 
Euripides,  though  taxed  with  effeminacy  or  degrada¬ 
tion  of  art  by  critics  of  the  Aristophanic  school,  may 
have  had  its  influence  in  the  salvage  of  seventeen  plays 
and  fragments  of  others,  exceeding  in  number  the  sum 
of  those  of  both  his  extant  compeers. 

Having  passed  in  review  the  times,  the  life,  and  other 
circumstances  relating  to  Euripides,  we  may  now  pass 
on  to  a  survey  of  his  dramas. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

ALCESTIS. — MEDEA. 

“  She  came  forth  in  her  bridal  robes  arrayed, 

And  ’midst  the  graceful  statues,  round  the  hall 
Shedding  the  calm  of  their  celestial  mien, 

Stood,  pale,  yet  proudly  beautiful,  as  they: 

Flowers  in  her  bosom,  and  the  star-like  gleam 
Of  jewels  trembling  from  her  braided  hair, 

And  death  upon  her  brow.”  — (Felicia  Hemans.) 

Partly  on  account  of  its  being  the  fourth  play  in  the 
order  of  representation,  as  well  as  from  a  supposed 
comic  vein  in  the  character  of  Hercules,  the  “  Alcestis” 
has  been  considered  as  a  satiric  after-piece,  or  at  least  a 
substitute  for  that  appendage  to  the  tragic  trilogy. 


34 


EURIPIDES. 


But  no  reader  of  this  domestic  play,  whether  in  the 
original  or  translation,  will  find  mirth  or  satirical 
banter  in  it.  The  happy  ending  may  entitle  it  to  be 
regarded  as  a  comedy  in  the  modern  sense  of  the  term, 
although  until  the  very  last  scene  it  draws  so  deeply 
on  one  main  element  of  tragedy,  pity.  At  most,  the 
“Alcestis”  is  what  the  French  term  comedie  larmoy- 
ante.  No  one  of  the  extant  dramas  of  Euripides,  as 
a  whole,  is  so  pathetic.  The  reader  feels  now,  as  the 
spectators  doubtless  felt  at  its  representation,  that  it  is 
not  because  of  the  rank  of  the  sufferers  we  sympathize 
with  them.  It  is  not  Admetus  the  king,  but  Admetus 
the  husband,  whom  we  commiserate:  that  she  is  a  queen 
adds  nothing  to  our  admiration  of  the  tender  and  self¬ 
devoting  Alcestis.  Among  the  faults  found  with  this 
drama  is  one  that  sounds  strangely  to  modern  ears. 
It  wrought,  say  the  objectors,  upon  the  feelings  of 
spectators  by  an  exhibition  of  woe  beneath  the  dignity 
of  the  sufferers,  who  are  therefore  degraded  by  the  pity 
excited  on  their  behalf.  This  seems  “  hedging  kings” 
with  a  most  preposterous  “divinity,” — setting  them 
apart  from  common  humanity  by  making  them  void  of 
human  affections.  If  to  touch  an  audience  through 
the  medium  of  household  sorrows  were  a  blot  in  Greek 
tragedy,  it  will  scarcely  be  accounted  a  blemish  by 
modern  readers. 

The  story  of  the  “Alcestis”  is  founded  upon  some 
legend  or  tradition  of  northern  Greece,  probably 
brought  thither  from  the  East.  The  Fates  have  marked 
Admetus,  king  of  Pherae,  in  Thessaly,  for  death. 
Apollo  has  prevailed  upoh  the  grim  sisters  to  grant 
him  a  reprieve  on  one  condition — that  he  finds  a  sub¬ 
stitute.  In  the  first  instance  he  applies  to  his  father 
and  mother,  aged  people,  but  they  decline  being  vicari- 


ALcmm. 


75 


6usly  sacrificed.  His  wife  Alcestis  alone  will  give  her 
life  for  his  ransom.  Apollo  does  Admetus  this  good 
turn  because  he  has  himself,  when  condemned  by 
Jupiter  to  serve  in  a  mortal’s  house,  been  kindly  treated 
by  the  Pliersean  king.  When  the  play  opens,  tlie  doom 
of  Alcestis  is  at  hand.  She  is  sick  unto  death;  and 
Death  himself,  an  impersonation  similar  to  that  of  Mad¬ 
ness  in  the  “Mad  Hercules,”  is  at  the  palace  gate 
awaiting  his  prey.  The  grizzly  fiend,  suspecting  that 
Apollo  intends  a  second  time  to  defraud  him  of  his 
dues  by  interposing  for  Alcestis  as  he  had  done  for 
Admetus,  is  in  no  gracious  mood;  but  the  god  assures 
him  that  his  interest  with  the  Fates  is  exhausted.  The 
following  scenes  are  occupied  with  the  parting  of  the 
victim  from  her  husband,  her  children,  and  her  house¬ 
hold,  and  a  faithful  servant  describes  the  profound  grief 
of  them  all.  In  the  midst  of  tears  and  wailings,  and 
just  after  death  has  claimed  his  own,  an  unlooked-for 
guest  arrives.  Hercules,  most  stalwart  of  mortals,  but 
not  yet  a  demigod,  enters.  He  is  on  his  road  to 
Thessaly,  sent  on  one  more  perilous  errand  by  his 
enemy  Eurystlieus.  He  is  struck  by  the  signs  of  general 
woe  in  the  household.  He  proposes  to  pass  on  to  another 
friend  of  his  in  Pherae,  but  Admetus  will  not  hear  of 
what  he  regards  a  breach  of  hospitable  duties,  and  gives 
orders  to  a  servant  to  take  Hercules  to  a  distant  chamber, 
and  there  set  meat  and  drink  before  him.  The  guest, 
much  perplexed  by  all  he  sees,  but  foiled  in  his  inquiries, 
and  led  to  suppose  that  some  female  relative  of  Admetus 
is  dead,  goes  to  his  dinner,  prepared  to  enjoy  it,  al¬ 
though,  under  the  circumstances,  it  must  be  a  solitary 
meal.  Unaware  of  the  real  state  of  things,  he  greatly 
scandalizes  his  attendant  by  his  appetite,  and  still  more 
by  breaking  out  into  snatches  of  convivial  songs.  “  Of 


73 


EURIPIDES. 


all  the  gormandising  and  unfeeling  ruffians  I  ever  met 
with/'  says  the  slave  in  waiting,  “this  fellow  is  the 
worst.  He  eats  dke  a  half-famished  wolf,  drinks  in 
proportion,  calls  for  more  than  is  set  before  him,  and 
sings,  or  rather  howls,  his  ribald  songs  out  of  all  tune, — 

“  4  While  we  o’  the  household  mourned  our  mistress — mourned, 
That  is  to  say,  in  silence  -never  showed 
The  eyes,  which  we  kept  wetting,  to  the  guest — 

For  there  Admetus  was  imperative. 

And  so,  here  am  I  helping  to  make  at  home 
A  guest,  some  fellow  ripe  for  wickedness, 

Robber  or  pirate,  while  she  goes  her  way 
Out  of  her  house. 

•  •  •  #  •  •  • 

Never  yet 

Received  I  worse  guest  than  this  present  one.’  (B.) 

“Nor  content  with  being  voracious  and  dainty,  he  drinks 
till  the  wine  fires  his  brain.” 

Hercules  marks  the  rueful  visage  of  his  attendant, 
and  thinking  that  Admetus  has  bidden  him  be  as  cheer¬ 
ful  as  usual,  the  family  affliction  being  only  a  slight 
one,  rates  him  roundly  for  his  woe-begone  looks: 

“  Hercules.  Why  loolc’st  so  solemn  and  so  thought-absorbed? 
To  guests,  a  servant  should  not  sour-faced  be, 

But  do  the  honors  with  a  mind  urbane. 

Whilst  thou,  contrariwise,  beholding  here 
Arrive  thy  master’s  comrade,  hast  for  him 
A  churlish  visage,  all  one  beetle-brow— 

Having  regard  to  grief  that’s  out  of  door! 

Come  hither,  and  so  get  to  grow  more  wise. 

'  Things  mortal— know’st  the  nature  that  they  have? 

No,  I  imagine!  whence  could  knowledge  spring? 

Give  ear  to  me  then !  For  all  flesh  to  die 
Is  nature’s  due ;  nor  is  there  any  one 
Of  mortals  with  assurance  he  shall  last 
The  coming  morrow.”— (B.) 

And  So  on  the  old  but  ever-appropriate  text,  “  Thou 


ALCESTlS. 


77 


knowest  that  to  die  is  common;"  and  the  oft-renewed 
question,  “  Why  seems  it  then  particular  to  thee?" 
Hercules  proceeds  moralizing — “  philosophizing  even  in 
his  drink,”  as  an  old  scholiast  remarks.  The  pith,  in¬ 
deed,  of  Hercules’s  counsel  is  “Drink,  man,  and  put  a 
garland  on  thy  head.” 

When,  however,  the  attendant  says — 

“  Ah!  thou  know’st  naught  o’  the  woe  within  these  walls:” 

the  guest’s  curiosity  is  aroused.  Can  Admetus  have 
deceived  me  ?  is  it,  then,  not  a  distant  kinswoman 
whom  they  are  burying?  have  I  been  turning  a  house 
of  mourning  into  a  house  of  feasting?  Tell  me,  good 
fellow,  what  has  really  chanced.  The  servant  replies: 

“  Thou  cam’st  not  at  a  fit  receptiomtime: 

With  sorrow  here  beforehand;  and  thou  geest 
Shorn  hair,  black  robes. 

Hercules.  But  who  is  it  that’s  dead? 

Some  child  gone?  or  the  ag&d  sire,  perhaps? 

Servant.  Admetus’  wife,  then,  she  has  perished,  guest. 

Hercules.  How  say’st?  and  did  ye  house  me  all  the  same? 

Servant.  Ay:  for  he  had  thee  in  that  reverence, 

He  dared  not  turn  thee  from  the  door  away. 

Hercules.  O  hapless,  and  bereft  of  what  a  mate  l 
All  of  us  now  are  dead,  not  she  alone; 

Where  is  he  gone  to  bury  her?  where  am  I 
To  go  and  find  her? 

Servant.  By  the  road  that  leads 

Straight  to  Larissa,  thou  wilt  see  the  tomb 
Out  of  the  suburb,  a  carved  sepulchre.”— (B.) 

But  as  soon  as  Hercules  extracts  from  the  servant  the 
real  cause  of  the  family  grief,  all  levity  departs  from 
him.  He  is  almost  wroth  with  his  friend  for  such  over¬ 
strained  delicacy,  and  hurries  out  to  render  him  such 
“yeoman’s  service"  as  no  one  except  the  strongest  of 
mankind  can  perform.  Alcestis  has  been  laid  in  her 


Mmipinm 


W 

grave;  the  mourners  have  all  come  back  to  the  palace; 
and  Death,  easy  in  his  mind  as  to  Apollo,  and  secure, 
as  he  deems  himself,  from  interruption,  is  making 
ready  for  a  ghoulish  feast  on  her  corpse.  But  he  has 
reckoned  without  the  guest.  He  finds  himself  in  the 
dilemma  of  foregoing  his  prey  or  being  strangled,  and 
he  permits  his  irresistible  antagonist  to  restore  the  self- 
devoted  wife  to  the  arms  of  her  disconsolate  and  even 
more  astonished  husband.* 

With  the  instinct  of  a  great  artist,  Euripides  cen¬ 
tralizes  the  interest  of  the  action  in  Alcestis  alone ;  and 
in  order  to  show  how  perfect  the  sacrifice  is,  he  endows 
the  victim  with  every  noble,  tender,  and  loving  quality 
of  woman.  She  stands  as  far  apart  from  and  above  the 
other  characters  in  the  play  as  Una  does  in  the  first  book 
of  the  “Faery  Queen.”  For  the  Greek  stage  she  is 
what  Portia  and  Cordelia  are  for  the  English.  If  less 
heroic  than  Antigone  or  Electra,  she  is  more  human; 
the  strength  which  opposition  to  harsh  laws  or  thirst 
for  “great  revenge”  lent  to  them,  to  her  is  supplied  by 
the  might  of  wifely  love.  Possibly  it  was  this  sublime 
tenderness  that  kept  the  memory  of  Alcestis  green 
through  ages  in  which  the  manuscripts  of  Euripidean 
dramas  were  lying  among  the  rolls  of  Byzantine 
libraries,  or  the  dust  and  worms  of  the  monasteries  of 
the  West.  Chaucer,  in  his  “  Court  of  Love,”  calls  her 


*  Never  has  rationalizing  of  old-world  stories  made  a  bolder 
stride  than  in  the  case  of  this  play.  Late  Greek  writers  ascribe 
the  decease  of  Alcestis  to  her  having  nursed  her  husband  through 
a  fever.  She  takes  it  herself,  and  is  laid  out  for  dead,  when  a 
physician,  sharper-sighted  than  the  rest  of  the  faculty  at  the 
time,  discovers  that  the  vital  spark  is  not  extinct,  and  cheats 
death  of  his  foe  by  remedies  unluckily  not  mentioned  for  the 
benefit  of  posterity. 


ALCESTIS. 


79 


the  “Quen&’s  floure;”  and  in  his  “  Legende  of  Good 
Women”  she  is  “  under  Yenus  lady  and  quene:” 

“  And  from  afer  came  walking  in  the  Mede 
The  God  of  Love,  and  in  his  hand  a  quene, 

And  she  was  clad  in  real  *  habit  grene: 

A  fret  of  golde  she  haddS  next  her  heer, 

And  upon  that  a  white  corowne  she  bere 
With  flour&s  smale.” 

With  equally  happy  art — indeed,  after  Shakespeare’s 
manner  with  his  female  personages — we  are  not  for¬ 
mally  told  of  her  goodness;  but  we  know  from  those 
around  her  that  the  loving  wife  is  also  a  loving  mother, 
a  kind  and  liberal  mistress.  Even  the  sorrow  of  the 
Chorus  is  significant:  it  is  composed  not  of  susceptible 
women,  but  of  ancient  men — past  the  age  in  whick  the 
affections  are  active,  and  when  the  lengthening  shadows 
on  the  dial  often  render  the  old  less  sensible  of  others’ 
woe.  And  this  tribute  from  the  elders  of  the  neighbor¬ 
hood  completes  the  circle  of  grief  on  the  removal  of 
Alcestis  from  all  she  had  loved — from  the  cheering 
sunlight,  the  lucid  streams,  the  green  pastures,  which 
from  the  palace  windows  had  so  often  gladdened  her 
eyes. 

Next  to  Alcestis  in  interest  is  her  deliverer.  Without 
Hercules  the  play  would,  like  “The  Trojan  Women,” 
have  been  too  “  infected  with  grief.”  Almost  from  the 
moment  of  liis  entrance  a  ray  of  hope  begins  to  streak 
the  gloom,  and  this  an  Athenian  spectator  would  feel 
more  immediately  than  an  English  reader.  The  theatri¬ 
cal  as  well  as  the  legendary  Hercules,  if  not  a  comic, 
was  at  least  a  cheery,  personage.  On  his  right  arm 
victory  rested.  He  was  no  stranger  to  the  Pherasans. 


*  Royal. 


80 


EURIPIDES: 


His  deeds  were  sung  at  festivals,  and  told  by  the  hearth 
in  winter.  The  very  armor  he  wore  was  a  trophy:  the 
lion’s  skin  he  had  won  in  fight  with  a  king  of  beasts :  with 
his  club  he  had  slain  the  wild  boa  r  who  had  gored  other 
mighty  hunters:  he  had  wrestled  with  and  prevailed 
over  the  giants  of  the  earth:  he  was  as  generous  and 
genial  as  he  was  valiant  and  strong:  none  but  the  proud 
and  cruel  fear  him:  he  has  ever  kind  words  for  women 
and  children:  his  presence,  when  he  is  off  duty,  is  a 
holiday:  he  may  sing  out  of  tune,  yet  his  laugh  is  music 
to  the  ear. 

The  oilier  dramatis  personae  are  kept,  perhaps  pur¬ 
posely,  in  the  background.  Admetus  makes  almos; 
as  poor  a  figure  in  this  play  as  Jason  does^  in  the 
“Medea.”  Self-preservation  is  the  leading  feature  in 
his  character.  He  loves  Alcestis  much,  but  he  loves 
himself  more.  He  cannot  look  his  situation  in  the 
face.  For  some  time  he  has  known  his  wife’s  promise 
to  die  for  him,  but,  until  the  hour  of  its  fulfilment  is 
striking,  he  is  too  weak  to  realize  the  import  of  her 
pledge.  He  lays  flattering  unction  on  his  soul — per¬ 
haps  somewhat  in  this  wise:  “My  wife,  as  well  as 
myself,  must  one  day  die :  perchance  the  Fates  may 
not  be  in  haste  for  either  of  us  —  may  even,  with 
Apollo  to  friend  us,  renew  the  bond.”  When  the 
inexorable  missive  comes  for  her,  he  is  indeed  deeply 
cast  down:  yet  even  then  there  is  not  a  spark  of  man¬ 
liness  in  him.  Provided  the  Fates  got  one  victim, 
they  might  not  have  been  particular  as  to  which  of  the 
twain  was  “nominated  in  the  bond.”  But  no — for  him 
there  is  a  saving  clause  in  it,  and  he  will  not  forego 
the  benefit  of  it.  He  will  do  everything  but  the  one 
thing  it  is  in  his  power  to  do,  to  prove  his  conjugal 
affection.  There  shall  be  no  more  mirth  or  feasting 


ALCESTIS. 


81 


in  his  dominions;  the  sound  of  tabret  and  harp  shall 
never  more  be  heard  in  his  dwelling;  black  shall  be  his 
only  wear;  no  second  wiife  shall  occupy  the  room  of  his 
first;  had  he  the  lute  of  Orpheus,  he  would  go  down  to 
Pluto’s  gloomy  realm,  and  bring  her  to  upper  air.  Ha 
“doth  profess  too  much:”  he  lacks  the  heroic  spirit 
that  dwelt  in  Polyxena,  Macaria,  and  Iphigenia.  Some 
excuse  for  one  so  weak  as  Admetus  may  perhaps  be 
found  in  the  view  of  death,  or  life  after  death,  taken 
by  the  Greeks  generally.  Even  their  Elysian  fields 
were  inhabited  by  melancholy  spectres.  For  with 
them,  to  die  either  was  to  be  annihilated  or  to  pass  a 
monotonous  existence  without  fear,  but  also  without 
hope.  In  the  one  case  Wordsworth’s  lines  are  appli¬ 
cable  to  them  as  well  as  to  “  Lucy:” 

“  No  motion  has  she  now,  no  force: 

She  neither  hears  nor  sees ; 

Rolled  round  in  earth’s  diurnal  course 
With  rocks  and  stones  and  trees.” 

They  held  with  Claudio  that 

“The  weariest  and  most  loathed  worldly  life 
That  age,  ache,  penury,  and  imprisonment 
Can  lay  on  nature,  is  a  paradise 
To  what  we  fear  of  death.”  * 

Or  they  would  say  with  the  great  Achilles  in  the  Shades, 
when  Ulysses  congratulated  him  on  being  so  honored 
among  dead  heroes: 

“  Renowned  Ulysses,  thiuk  not  death  a  theme 
Of  consolation:  I  had  rather  live, 

The  servile  hind  for  hire,  and  eat  the  bread 
Of  some  man  scantily  himself  sustained, 

Than  sovereign  empire  hold  o’er  all  the  Shades* ”+ 


*  “  Measure  for  Measure.” 


t  Odyssey,  xi.  (Cowper.) 


82 


EURIPIDES . 


There  may  be  an  approach  to  comedy  in  the  scene 
between  Admetus  and  his  father  Plieres.  The  son  asks 
his  gray-haired  sire,  who  brings  gifts  to  the  funeral,  “  if 
he  is  not  ashamed  of  himself  for  cumbering  the  ground 
so  long?  Why  did  he  not,  an  old  fellow  and  a  useless, 
take  the  place  of  poor  Alcestis?”  Pheres  replies,  and 
with  some  show  of  reason,  “If  you  were  so  fond  of 
your  late  wife  as  you  pretend  to  be,  why  did  you  not  go 
when  you  were  summoned?  for  remember  it  was  not 
I  but  you  on  whom  the  citation  of  the  Fates  was  origi¬ 
nally  served.  For  my  part,  I  had  a  great  regard  for 
my  daughter-in-law — she  was  a  most  exemplary  young 
woman ;  but  as  for  taking  her  place,  I  crave  to  be  ex¬ 
cused.  I  am  an  old  man,  it  is  true ;  still  I  am  remarka¬ 
bly  well  for  my  years :  and  as  for  cumbering  the  ground, 
I  hope  to  do  so  a  little  while  longer.  You  may  have 
been  a  tender  husband  and  a  faithful,  and  I  dare  say  will 
be  a  good  father,  and  not  vex  the  two  poor  orphans  with 
a  stepmother— at  least,  just  at  present:  but  I  must  say 
your  language  to  myself  is  very  uncivil,  not  to  say  un- 
filial.”  The  timid  or  selfish  nature  of  Admetus  is  re¬ 
flected  in  that  of  his  sire :  it  is  easy  to  conceive  the  son  an¬ 
other  Pheres,  when  years  shall  have  grizzled  his  beard. 

The  reluctance  of  Admetus,  in  the  final  scene,  to  take 
Alcestis  back  again,  when  “  brought  to  him  from  the 
grave,”  has  been  regarded  as  a  comic  situation;  but  it  is 
by  no  means  certain  either  that  Euripides  intended  it  for 
one,  or  that  the  spectators  so  interpreted  it.  The  re¬ 
vived  wife  is  a  mute  person,  and  her  still  disconsolate 
husband,  who  has  so  lately  sworn  never  again  to  marry, 
believes  for  a  few  minutes  that  Hercules  has  indelicate¬ 
ly,  though  with  the  best  intentions,  brought  him  a  new 
partner.  The  real  drift  of  this  incident  depends  very 
much  on  the  view  of  the  deliverer,  taken  commonly  by 


ALCEST1S. 


83 


an  Athenian  audience.  Setting  aside  the  use  made  of 
Hercules  by  the  comic  poets,  we  may  inquire  how  paint¬ 
ers  represented  him.  He  is  delineated  on  vases  either  as 
doing  valiant  deeds  with  liis  club  or  by  his  fatal  arrows, 
or  as  indulging  himself  with  the  wine-cup.  In  one  in¬ 
stance  his  weapons  have  been  stolen  from  him  by  the 
God  of  Love,  and  he  himself  is  running  after  a  girl  who 
has  carried  off  his  pitcher.  The  tragedians  also  do  not 
treat  him  with  much  ceremony  in  their  dramas:  he  was 
only  a  Boeotian  hero,  and  so  they  took  liberties  with  him. 

This  choral  song,  the  last  in  the  play,  comes  immedi¬ 
ately  before  the  reappearance  of  Hercules,  with  the  res¬ 
cued  Alcestis: 

“  I  too  have  been  borne  along 
Through  the  airy  realms  of  song. 

Searched  I  have  historic  page, 

Yet  ne’er  found  in  any  age 
Power  that  with  thine  can  vie, 

Masterless  Necessity. 

Thee  nor  Orpheus’  mystic  scrolls 
Graved  by  him  on  Thracian  pine, 

Thee  nor  Phoebus’  art  controls, 
iEsculapian  art  divine. 

Of  the  Powers  thou  alone 
Altar  hast  not,  image,  throne: 

Sacrifices  wilt  thou  none. — 

Pains  too  sharp  for  mortal  state 
Lay  not  on  me,  mighty  Fate. 

Jove  doth  aye  thy  hests  fulfil, 

His  to  work  and  thine  to  will. 

Hardest  iron  delved  from  mine 
Thou  canst  break  and  bend  and  twine; 

Harsh  in  purpose,  heart  of  stone, 

Mercy  is  to  thee  unknown. 

Thee,  Admetus,  in  the  bands 
Of  her  stern  unyielding  hands 
Hath  she  taken ;  but  resign 
Thy  life  to  her— it  is  not  thine 


84 


EURIPIDES. 


By  thy  weeping  to  restore 
Those  who  Jook  on  light  no  more. 

Even  the  bright  sons  of  heaven 
To  dimness  and  to  death  are  given. 

She  was  loved  when  she  was  here; 

And  in  death  we  hold  her  dear: 

Let  not  her  hallowed  tomb  be  past 
As  where  the  common  dead  are  cast; 

Let  her  have  honor  with  the  blest 
Who  dwell  above;  her  place  of  rest 
When  the  traveller  passeth  by, 

Let  him  say,  ‘  Within  doth  lie 
She  who  dared  for  love  to  die. 

Thou  who  now  in  bliss  dost  dwell. 

Hail,  blest  soul,  and  speed  us  welll  ’  ”  * 

MEDEA. 

To  combine  in  the  same  chapter  Alcestis  with 
Medea,  may  appear  like  yoking  the  lamb  with  the 
lion;  and  so  it  would  be  were  the  Colchian  princess 
the  mere  fury  for  which  she  is  often  taken.  But 
Euripides  had  too  deeply  studied  human  character  not 
to  be  aware  that  in  nature  there  are  no  monsters — 
none  at  least  fit  for  the  ends  of  dramatic  poetry;  and 
accordingly  his  Medea,  though  deeply  wronged,  is  yet 
a  woman  who  loved  not  wisely  but  too  well.  Even 
Lady  Macbeth,  though  far  more  criminal  than  the 
heroine  of  this  tragedy,  since  she  had  no  wrongs  to 
avenge,  but  sins  for  ambition’s  sake  alone,  is  not  en¬ 
tirely  devoid  of  human  feeling.  With  similar  truth, 
both  of  art  and  observation,  the  Greek  poet  gives  Medea 
a  woman’s  heart  even  in  the  moments  when  she  is 
meditating  on  her  fell  purpose. 

*  Partly  translated  by  the  late  Dean  Alford.  Gray,  in  his  fine 
ode,  “  Daughter  of  Jove,  relentless  power,”  had  this  choral  song 
before  him,  as  well  as  the  verge's  of  Horace  which  he  proposed  to 
imitate. 


MEDEA. 


S5 

Aristotle’s  judgment  that  Euripides,  although  he  does 
not  manage  everything  for  the  best  in  his  plots  or  his 
representations  of  life,  is  the  most  pathetic  of  dramatic 
poets,  is  especially  true  of  this  tragedy.  The  hold  that 
it  has  in  every  age  retained  upon  spectators  as  well  as 
readers,  is  a  proof  of  the  subject  being  chosen  well.  It 
was  translated  or  adapted  by  Roman  dramatists;  it  was 
revived  in  the  early  days  of  the  modern  theatre  in 
Europe ;  it  is  still,  wedded  to  immortal  music,  attrac¬ 
tive;  and  no  one  who  has  seen  the  part  of  Medea  per¬ 
formed  by  Pasta  or  Grisi  will  question  its  effect  on  an 
audience. 

On  the  stage  Medea  appears  under  some  disadvan¬ 
tage.  The  worse  elements  of  her  nature  are  there 
active;  the  better  appear  only  now  and  then.  She  is 
placed  in  the  situation  described  by  Shakespeare: 

“  Between  the  acting  of  a  dreadful  thing 
And  the  first  motion,  all  the  interim  is 
Like  a  phantasma  or  a  hideous  dream: 

The  genius,  and  the  mortal  instruments 
Are  then  in  council;  and  the  state  of  man, 

Like  to  a  little  kingdom,  suffers  then 

The  nature  of  an  insurrection.”  —  (“  Julius  Caesar.”) 

This  is  the  condition  of  Medea  from  her  first  appear¬ 
ance  on  the  scene  to  the  last;  the  “  little  kingdom”  of 
her  being  is  rent  in  twain  by  her  injuries,  her  threat¬ 
ened  banishment,  her  helplessness  among  strangers  and 
foes,  her  jealousy,  her  contempt  for  the  mean-spirited 
Jason,  her  contempt  even  for  herself.  That  she,  the 
wise,  the  potent  enchantress,  should  have  been  caught 
by  his  superficial  beauty,  and  not  read  from  the  first 
his  real  character — are  all  elements  of  the  insurrection 
in  her  nature.  We  behold  only  the  deeply-wronged 
wife  and  mother — we  do  not  realize  her  as  she  was  a 


mnipiDm 


$6 

few  years  earlier,  before  the  spoiler  came  to  Colchis,  a 
timid,  trusting,  and  loving  maiden,  who  set  her  life  on 
one  cast.  Her  picture,  as  drawn  by  an  epic  poet  from 
whom  Virgil  found  much  to  borrow,  may  put  before  us 
Medea  as  she  was  before  the  ship  Argo — “  built  in  the 
eclipse  and  rigged  with  curses  dark” — passed  between 
the  blue  Symplegades,  and  first  broke  the  silence  of  the 
llellespontic  sea.  She  is  thus  described  after  her  first 
interview  with  Jason: 

“  And  thus  Medea  slowly  seemed  to  part, 

Love’s  cares  still  brooding  in  her  troubled  heart; 

And  imaged  still  before  her  wondering  eyes, 

His  living,  breathing  self  appears  to  rise— 

His  very  garb :  and  thus  he  spake,  thus  sate, 

Thus,  ah,  too  soon  ■  he  glided  from  the  gate. 

Sure  ne’er  her  loving  eyes  beheld  his  peer, 

And  still  his  honeyed  words  are  melting  on  her  ear.’1 

A  little  further  on  we  have  this  description  of  her 

“She  said,  she  rose; 

Her  maiden  chamber’s  solitary  floor 

With  trembling  steps  she  trod:  she  reached  the  door, 

Fain  to  her  sister's  neighboring  bower  to  haste; 

And  yet  the  threshold  hardly  had  she  passed, 

Sudden  her  failing  feet  are  checked  by  shame, 

Ana  long  she  lingered  there,  then  back  she  came. 

Oft  as  desire  would  drive  her  forth  again, 

So  of*-  does  maiden  bashfulness  restrain. 

Thrice  she  essayed  to  go,  thrice  stopped,  then  prone 
In  anguish  on  her  couch  behold  her  thrown.”  * 

Such  was  Medea  a  few  years  only — if  there  be  such  a 
thing  as  dramatic  time — before  the  tragedy  begins. 
Her  children  are  very  young.  Jason  and  herself  appear 
to  have  not  been  long  at  Corinth,  and  so  she  must  be 
regarded  as  still  in  the  bloom  of  her  youth  and  beauty, 


*  Dean  Milman’s  “  Translations  from  Valerius  Flaccus.” 


MEDEA . 


87 


and  not  a  hot-tempered  lady  of  uncertain  age.  The 
desertion  of  her  by  her  husband  has  accordingly  the 
less  excuse. 

There  is  no  prologue  to  this  play,  for  the  opening 
speech  of  the  nurse — nurses  on  the  Greek  stage  per¬ 
form  very  similar  functions  to  those  of  the  indispens¬ 
able  confidantes  of  the  classic  drama  of  France — cannot 
be  considered  as  such.  This  old  servant  does  not  go 
much  into  family  history;  indeed,  a  barbaric  woman — 
for  such  Medea  is — was  supposed  by  the  pedigree-loving 
Greeks  to  have  no  ancestors  worth  mentioning.  She 
merely  lets  the  audience  know  the  very  critical  posi¬ 
tion  of  affairs  between  Jason  and  his  wife.  The  nurse 
perceives  that  nothing  but  evil  can  come  out  of  this 
second  marriage — is  sure  that  Medea  is  plotting  some 
terrible  revenge — and  tells  an  old  servant  of  Jason’s  her 
own  terrors  and  her  mistress's  sad  condition.  He,  on 
his  part,  brings  her  Dews.  Medea  must  quit  Corinth 
on  that  very  day,  and  take  her  two  sons  with  her;  their 
father  has  consented  to  their  banishment,  and  Creon, 
king  of  Corinth,  cannot  rest  until  the  Colcliian  witch  is 
over  the  border.  The  fears  of  the  nurse  harp  on  the 
children.  She  bids  them  go  into  the  house,  and  begs 
Jason’s  servant, — 

“To  the  utmost,  keep  them  by  themselves, 

Nor  bring  them  near  their  sorrow-frenzied  mother. 

For  late  I  saw  her  with  the  roused  bull’s  glare 
View  them  as  though  she’d  at  them,  and  I  trow 
That  she’ll  not  bate  her  wrath  till  it  have  swooped 
Upon  some  prey.”  * 

Her  just  fears  are  confirmed  by  the  exclamations  of 
her  mistress,  speaking  from  within: 

*  All  the  translations  are  taken  from  Mrs.  Augusta  Webster's 
version , poetical  as  well  as  “literal,”  of  the  “Medea.” 


88 


EURIPIDES. 


“Ah  me!  ah  me! 

I  have  endured,  sad  woman,  endured 
A  burden  for  great  laments.  Cursed  sons 
Ot  a  loathed  mother,  die,  ye  and  your  sire, 

And  let  ah  our  house  wane  away.” 

The  nurse  remains  on  the  stage  when  the  Chorus  of 
Corinthian  women  enter  and  comment  on  the  “wild 
and  whirling  words”  they  have  overheard : 

“  I  heard  the  voice,  nay,  heard  the  shriek 
Of  the  hapless  Colchian  dame. 

Is  she  not  calmed?  Old  matron,  speak; 

For  through  the  double  portals  came 
A  voice  of  wail  and  woe.” 

The  nurse  tells  them  that  Medea  “in  no  way  is 
calmed,”  and  again  from  within  is  heard  the  plaint  of 
the  unhappy  and  indignant  princess: 

“  Woe!  woe! 

Oh  lightning  from  heaven,  dart  through  my  headl 
For  what  is  my  gain  to  live  any  more?” 

The  Chorus  express  their  sympathy,  hut  the  assur¬ 
ance  they  give  that  *■  Zeus  will  judge  on  her  side”  is 
not  satisfactory  to  her  perturbed  spirit.  Yielding  to 
the  wish  of  these  sympathizing  friends,  Medea  at 
length  comes  forth  from  the  inner  chamber,  and,  con¬ 
sidering  her  circumstances,  makes  a  more  temperate 
address  to  the  Chorus  than,  after  hearing  her  exclama¬ 
tions  behind  the  scenes,  they  might  have  expected. 
She  expatiates  on  the  hardship  of  being  a  woman,  and, 
after  some  remarks  on  the  few  prizes  and  many  blanks 
in  the  lottery  of  marriage,  she  begs  them  to  befriend 
her  so  far  at  least  as  to  keep  her  counsel  if  she  commu¬ 
nicates  het  purpose  at  any  time  to  them.  This  they 
promise  to  do,  and  tell  her  that,  so  far  as  regards  her 
husband,  she  has  good  right  to  avenge  herself  on  him — 
a  sentiment  that,  if  the  Athenian  ladies  were  permitted 


MEDEA. 


89 


to  applaud  in  the  theatre,  was  probably  greeted  with 
much  clapping  of  hands. 

King  Creon  now  comes  on  to  tell  Medea  officially 
what  the  old  servant  has  already  intimated  to  the  nurse. 
“  Thou  sullen-browed  woman,”  he  says, 

“  Medea,  I  command  that  from  this  realm 
Thou  go  an  exile,  taking  thy  two  sons; 

And  linger  not,  for  mine  is  the  decree, 

Nor  will  I  enter  in  my  house  again 

Till  I  have  driven  thee  past  the  land’s  last  bounds.” 

This  decision  of  Creon  cuts  up,  root  and  branch,  all 
Medea’s  projects  for  revenging  herself  on  Jason,  his 
father-in-law,  and  his  new  wife.  “Now,”  she  says, 

“  My  enemies  crowd  on  all  sail, 

And  there  is  now  no  haven  from  despair.” 

She  speaks  softly  to  the  king,  even  kneels  to  him, 
to  turn  away  his  wrath.  But  Creon  is  too  much  in 
dread  of  her  devices  to  revoke  his  sentence  of  banish¬ 
ment.  All  he  will  concede  is  for  her  and  her  sons  to 
depart  to-morrow  instead  of  to-day.  That  morrow, 
Medea  may  have  said  to  herself,  you  shall  never  see. 
She  has  gained  time  for  compassing  her  revenge. 

In  her  next  speech  she  lets  the  Chorus  into  her  secret 

so  far  as  to  make  them  sure  there  will  be  bloody  work 

in  the  palace  before  the  sun  sets.  “Fool  that  he  is!” 

she  says;  “  he  has  left  me  now  only  one  thing  to  find — 

a  city  of  refuge,  a  host  who  will  shelter  me  after  I  have 

done  the  deed,  since  in  this  day  three  of  my  foes  shall 

perish  by  dagger  or  by  drug, — 

“  The  father  and  the  girl  and  he  my  husband. 

•  •«•••• 

For  never,  by  my  Queen,  whom  I  revere 
Beyond  all  else,  and  chose  unto  my  aid, 

By  Hecate,  who  dwells  on  my  hearth’s  shrine, 

Shall  any  wring  my  heart  and  still  be  glad.” 


90 


EURIPIDES . 


A  noble  and  appropriate  chorus  follows  this  magnifi¬ 
cent  speech  of  Medea’s.  There  is  room  only  for  the 
first  strophe,  in  which  the  women  hail  the  good  time 
coming: 

“  The  hallowed  rivers  backward  stream 
Against  their  founts:  right  crooks  awry 
With  all  things  else:  man’s  every  scheme 
Is  treachery. 

Even  with  gods  faith  finds  no  place. 

But  fame  turns  too:  our  life  shall  have  renown: 

Honor  shall  come  to  woman’s  race, 

And  envious  fame  no  more  weigh  women  down.” 

Jason  now  enters:  he  comes  with  the  intention  of  re¬ 
monstrating  with  Medea  about  her  indiscreet  demeanor 
towards  Creon  and  the  royal  house;  tells  her  that,  but 
for  her  abominable  temper  and  rash  tongue,  she  might 
have  remained  on  good  terms  with  himself  and  all  in 
Corinth:  she  has  to  thank  herself  alone  for  the  decree 
of  banishment.  For  his  part,  he  has  done  all  in  his 
power  to  avert  her  doom ;  and  even  now,  though  she  is 
forever  calling  him  “the  worst  of  men,”  he  will  not 
let  her  go  forth  penniless;  she  shall  have  a  handsome 
provision  for  herself  and  children,  for,  he  adds, — 

“  Many  hardships 

Do  wait  on  exile,  and,  though  thou  dost  hate  me, 

I  am  not  able  to  desire  thy  harm.” 

Unless  Euripides  meant  to  represent  Jason  as  a  fool, 
as  well  as  base  and  ungrateful,  he  could  hardly  have 
devised  for  him  a  less  discreet  or  a  more  irritating 
speech  than  this.  Medea  now  turns  from  red  heat  to 
white;  recapitulates  Jason’s  obligations  to  herself,  the 
services  she  has  done  him,  the  crimes  she  has  com¬ 
mitted  for  him,  and  casts  to  the  winds  all  his  shallow, 
hypocritical  pretences  of  having  done  his  best  for  her 


MEDEA. 


91 


and  their  sons.  We  imagine  that  no  one  will  feel  any 
pity  for  Jason,  or  deny  that  he  richly  deserved  the 
words  that,  like  “  iron  sleet  of  arrowy  shower,”  fall,  in 
this  scene,  upon  his  head, — terrible,  yet  just,  as  the 
fulminations  hurled  against  Austria’s  Duke  by  Lady 
Constance  in  “  King  John:” 

“Thou  slave,  thou  wretch,  thou  coward. 

Thou  little  valiant,  great  in  villany! 

Thou  ever  strong  upon  the  stronger  side ! 

Thou  fortune’s  champion— thou  art  perjured  too, 

And  sooth’st  up  greatness.  Thou  cold-blooded  slave !” 

Jason  keeps  up,  like  Joseph  Surface,  his  fair  speeches 
to  the  last,  and  this  connubial  dialogue  closes  charac¬ 
teristically  on  either  side: 

“  Jason.  Then  do  I  call  the  gods  to  witness  this, 

How  I  desire  to  serve  thee  and  thy  sons; 

Yet  thou’lt  not  like  good  gifts,  but  wantonly 

Dost  spurn  thy  friends,  therefore  shalt  mourn  the  more. 

Medea.  Begone,  for  longing  after  thy  new  bride 
Seizes  thee,  so  much  tarrying  from  her  home: 

Take  her,  for  it  is  like— yea,  and  possessed 
By  a  god  I  will  declare  it— thou  dost  wed 
With  such  a  wedding  as  thou’lt  wish  undone.” 

After  a  brief  but  very  beautiful  song,  in  which  the 
Chorus  celebrates  the  power  and  deprecates  the  wrath 
of  Venus,  and  deplores  the  exile’s  lot,  the  real  Deus  ex 
machina  of  this  tragedy  presents  himself — not  hovering 
in  the  air,  nor  gorgeous  in  apparel,  nor  a  god  or  the  son 
of  a  god,  but  a  rather  commonplace,  prosy  gentleman, 
JEgeus,  king  of  Athens,  on  his  way  home  from  Delphi. 
Of  him  no  more  need  be  said  than  that,  by  promising 
by  his  gods  to  shelter  Medea,  and  yield  her  up  to  none, 
he  removes  the  one  difficulty  in  her  way  which  still 
perplexed  her.  Now  at  last  she  is  armed  at  all  points 
— §bp  bag  assured  home  and  protector,  tim§  tp 


92 


EURIPIDES. 


down  every  foe,  weapons  they  cannot  guard  against, 
and  means  to  escape  if  pursued. 

Her  wronged  children  shall  be  the  instrument  of  her 
vengeance.  As  to  Jason  himself,  she  has  changed  her 
purpose;  he  shall  not  have  the  privilege  of  dying,  for 
she  can  make  life  to  him  more  wretched  than  many 
deaths.  She  summons  him  again  to  her  presence;  pre¬ 
tends  to  regret  her  late  hot  words;  will  even  conciliate 
his  new  wife  with  such  gifts  as  none  but  kings’  daugh¬ 
ters  can  bestow.  Her  conditions  are,  that  if  the  robe 
and  crown  be  accepted  by  Glauc&,  the  children  shall 
not  quit  the  realm.  Jason,  thinking  that  Medea  is  now 
in  her  right  mind,  assents  to  both  proposals,  and  goes 
out  to  prepare  his  new  wife  for  the  presents.  The 
Chorus,  who  are  in  the  secret,  apprise  the  audience 
that  these  gauds  are  far  deadlier  than  were  Bellero- 
phon’s  letters: 

“  By  the  grace  and  the  perfect  gleaming  wcm, 

She  will  place  the  gold-wrought  crown  on  her  head; 

She  will  robe  herself  in  the  robe:  and  anon 
She  will  deck  her  a  bride  among  the  dead.” 

The  gifts  are  envenomed.  GlaucS  and  Creon,  wrapt 
in  a  sheet  of  phosphoric  flame,  expire  in  torments. 
Jason  is  a  widowed  bridegroom;  all  Corinth  is  aroused 
to  take  vengeance  on  the  barbaric  sorceress.  Surely 
this  must  be  the  end  of  the  tragedy.  No;  “  bad  begins, 
but  worse  remains  behind.”  One  more  blow  remains 
to  be  dealt.  Jason  is  wifeless,  he  shall  be  childless 
too,  before  Medea  speeds  in  her  dragon-borne  car — 
the  Chariot  of  the  Sun,  her  grandsire — to  hospitable 
Athens. 

Never,  perhaps,  has  a  more  terrible  scene  been  ex¬ 
hibited  on  any  stage  than  this  final  one  of  Metjea,  To 


MEDEA. 


93 


it  may  be  applied  the  words  spoken  of  another  spec¬ 
tacle  of  “woe  and  wonder:” 

“  This  quarry  cries  on  havock!  O,  proud  death  l 
What  feast  is  toward  in  thine  eternal  cell, 

That  thou  so  many  princes,  at  a  shot. 

So  bloodily  hast  struck.”— (“  Hamlet.”) 

Jason,  who  has  been  witnessing  the  charred  remains 
of  GlaucS  and  Creon,  rushes  on  the  stage  to  arrest  their 
murderess.  He  cries  frantically : 

“  Hath  she  gone  away  in  flight? 

For  now  must  she  or  hide  beneath  the  earth, 

Or  lift  herself  with  wings  into  wide  air, 

Not  to  pay  forfeit  to  the  royal  house.” 

But  “one  woe  doth  tread  upon  another’s  heels.” 
“  Seeks  she  to  kill  me  too?”  he  demands  of  the  Chorus. 
“Nay,”  they  reply,  “you  know  not  the  worst:” 

“  The  boys  have  perished  by  their  mother’s  hand: 

Open  these  gates  thou’lt  see  thy  muud.ered  sons. 

Jason.  Undo  the  bolt  on  the  instant,  servants  there ; 

Loose  the  clamps,  that  I  may  see  my  grief  and  bane. 

May  see  them  dead,  and  guerdon  her  with  death.” 

He  sees  them  dead,  indeed,  but  may  “not  kiss  the 
dear  lips  of  his  boys;”  “may  not  touch  his  children’s 
soft  flesh.”  Medea  hovers  over  the  palace,  taunts  him 
with  her  wrongs,  mocks  at  his  new-born  love  for  the 
children  he  had  consented  to  banish,  and  triumphs 
alike  over  her  living  and  her  dead  foes: 

“  ’Twas  not  for  thee,  having  spurned  my  love. 

To  lead  a  merry  life,  flouting  at  me, 

Nor  for  the  princess;  neither  was  it  his 
Who  gave  her  thee  to  wed  Creon,  unscathed 
To  cast  me  out  of  his  realm.  And  now,  * . 

If  it  so  like  thee,  call  me  lioness, 

And  Scylla,  dweller  on  Tursenian  plains; 

For  as  right  bade  me,  have  I  clutched  thy  heart,” 


94 


EURIPIDES. 


The  story  of  Medea,  unconnected  as  it  is  with  any 
workings  of  destiny  or  fatal  necessity — such  as  humbled 
the  pride  of  Theban  and  Argive  Houses — has  been 
taxed  with  a  want  of  proper  tragical  grandeur,  as  if  a 
picture  of  human  passion  were  less  fit  for  the  drama 
than  one  of  the  strife  between  Fate  and  Freewill. 

CHAPTER  V. 

THE  TWO  IPHIGENIAS. 

“  I  was  cut  off  from  hope  in  that  sad  place, 

Which  yet  to  name  my  spirit  loathes  and  fears: 

My  father  held  his  hand  upon  his  face; 

I,  blinded  with  my  tears, 

Still  strove  to  speak:  my  voice  was  thick  with  sighs, 

As  in  a  dream.  Dimly  I  could  descry 

The  stern  black-bearded  kings  with  wolfish  eyes 
Waiting  to  see  me  die.” 

—Tennyson:  “  A  Dream  of  Fair  Women.” 

About  the  fate  of  Iphigenia  many  stories  were  cur¬ 
rent  in  Greece,  and  the  version  of  it  adopted  by  Eurip¬ 
ides  is  one  among  several  instances  of  the  freedom 
which  he  permitted  himself  in  dealing  with  old  legends. 
iEschylus  in  his  “Agamemnon”  and  Sophocles  in  his 
“  Electra”  make  her  to  have  been  really  sacrificed  at 
Aulis.  Euripides  chose  a  milder  and  perhaps  later 
form  of  the  story;  and  if  we  have  the  conclusion  of  the 
drama,  as  he  wrote  it,  Diana,  at  the  last  moment,  res¬ 
cues  the  maiden,  and  substitutes  in  her  place  on  the 
altar — a  fawn.  To  this  change  his  own  humane  dis¬ 
position  may  have  led  him,  although  he  had  in  earlier 
plays  not  scrupled  to  immolate  Polyxena  and  Macaria. 
Perhaps  in  the  case  of  Iphigenia  consistency  required 
of  him  to  save  her,  siuce  in  the  play,  of  which  the 


THE  TWO  iPHlGENIAS. 


S5 

scene  is  laid  at  Tauri,  the  princess  is  alive  twenty 
years  after  her  appearance  at  Aulis.  Pausanias,  as 
diligent  a  collector  of  legendary  lore  as  Sir  Walter 
Scott  himself,  says  that  a  virgin  was  offered  up  at 
Aulis  to  appease  the  wrath  of  the  divine  huntress,  and 
that  her  name  was  Ipliigenia.  This  victim,  however, 
was  not  a  daughter  of  Agamemnon  and  Clytemnestra, 
but  of  Theseus  and  Helen,  whom  her  mother,  through 
fear  of  Menelaus,  did  not  dare  to  own.  In  the  Iliad, 
that  common  source  of  the  stage  poets  when  they  dealt 
with  the  tale  of  Troy,  nothing  is  said  about  substitute 
or  sacrifice,  nor  about  Ipliigenia’s  ministering  to  Diana 
at  Tauri.  On  the  contrary,*  the  Homeric  Iphianassa 
— for  that  is  her  epic  name — is  safe  and  well  with  her 
mother  and  sisters  at  Argos,  and  ten  years  after  her 
supposed  death  or  escape  is  offered  by  Agamemnon  as 
a  bride  to  Achilles. 

The  “Ipliigenia  in  Aulis,”  in  its  relation  to  the 
Grecian  world,  possessed,  we  may  fairly  surmise, 
universal  interest.  For  an  audience  composed,  as  that 
in  the  Dion}^siac  theatre  was,  of  Athenians,  allies, 
and  strangers,  there  were  associations  with  the  first 
general  armament  of  the  Greeks  against  foreigners, 
with  which  a  modern  reader  can  but  imperfectly  sym¬ 
pathize.  Priam,  Paris,  Hector,  Agamemnon,  Achilles, 
Helen,  and  Iphigenia  had  indeed,  centuries  before, 
vanished  into  the  shadow-land  of  Hades,  and  the  quiet 
sheep  fed  or  the  tortoise  crawled  over  the  mounds 


*  “  In  his  house 

He  hath  three  daughters:  thou  may’st  home  conduct 
To  Pthia  her  whom  thou  shalt  most  approve. 
Chrysothemis  shall  be  thy  bride,  or  else 
Laodice,  or,  if  she  please  thee  more, 

Iphianassa."— Iliad,  ix.  (Cowper.) 


95 


EURIPIDES. 


where  Troy  once  stood.  Yet  if  the  city  built  by  Gods 
now  excited  neither  wrath  nor  dread  in  Greece,  Persia 
and  the  great  King,  though  no  longer  objects  of  alarm, 
were  not  beyond  the  limits  of  Hellenic  anxiety  or 
vigilance,  and  were  still  able  to  vex  Athens  by  their 
“mines  of  Ophir,”  as  once  they  had  made  her  desolate 
by  their  Median  archers  and  the  swarthy  chivalry  of 
Susa.  To  Greece  and  the  islands,  the  dwellers  beyond 
Mount  Taurus  represented  the  ancient  foe  whom  it  had 
taken  their  ancestors  ten  years  to  vanquish;  and  scenic 
reminiscences  of  their  first  conflict  with  an  eastern  ad¬ 
versary  were  still  welcome  to  the  third  and  fourth  gen¬ 
eration  of  spectators,  whose  sires  had  fought  beside 
Miltiades  and  Cimon.* 

The  opening  scene  of  the  “Iphigenia  in  Aulis”  has, 
for  picturesqueness,  rarely  if  ever  been  surpassed.  The 
centre  of  the  stage  is  occupied  by  the  tent  of  Agamem¬ 
non:  supposing  ourselves  among  the  audience,  we  see 
on  the  left  hand  of  it  the  white  tents  and  beyond 
them  the  black  ships  of  the  Achseans;  on  the  right,  the 
road  to  the  open  country  by  which  Iphigenia  and  her 
mother  Clytemnestra  will  soon  arrive.  The  time  is 
night,  the  “brave  o’erhanging  firmament”  is  studded 
with  stars.  The  only  sounds  audible  are  the  tramp  of 
sentinels,  and  the  challenge  of  the  watch:  the  camp  is 
wrapt  in  deep  slumber: 

“  Not  the  sound 

Of  birds  is  heard,  nor  of  the  sea;  the  winds 

Are  hushed  in  silence.” 

“  The  king  of  men”  is  much  agitated  by  some  secret 

*  When  Agesilaus,  king  of  Sparta,  was  about  to  pass  into  Asia, 
as  commander  of  the  Greek  army,  he  offered  sacrifice  to  Diana 
at  Aulis,  so  lively  an  impression  still  remained  of  the  rash  vow  of 
“the  king  of  men.” 


THE  TWO  IPHIGENIAS. 


93 

grief.  By  the  light  of  a  “  blazing  lamp”  he  is  writing  a, 
letter 

“The  writing  he  does  blot;  then  seal, 

And  open  it  again;  then  on  the  floor 
Casts  it  in  grief :  the  warm  tear  from  his  eyes 
Fast  flowing,  in  his  thoughts  distracted  near, 

Even,  it  may  seem,  to  madness.” 

The  cause  for  the  perturbation  of  his  spirit  is  this:  the 
Grecian  fleet  has  been  detained  at  Aulis  by  thwarting 
winds,  and  Calchas,  the  seer,  has  declared  that  Aga¬ 
memnon’s  daughter  must  be  sacrificed  to  Diana,  irate 
with  him  because  he  has  shot,  while  hunting,  one  of 
her  sacred  deer.  Unwittingly  the  Grecian  commander 
has,  in  order  to  conciliate  her,  vowed  that  he  will  offer 
to  her  the  most  beautiful  creature  that  the  year  of  his 
child’s  birth  has  produced.  He  has  been  persuaded  by 
his  brother  Menelaus  to  summon  Iphigenia  to  Aulis,  on 
the  pretext  of  giving  her  in  marriage  to  Achilles.  He 
has  sent  a  letter  to  Argos,  directing  Clytemnestra  to 
bring  the  maiden  to  the  camp  without  delay.  Soon, 
however,  the  father  recoils  from  this  deceit,  and  he 
prepares  a  second  letter,  annulling  the  former  one,  and 
enjoining  his  wife  to  remain  at  home.  This  he  com¬ 
mits  to  the  hands  of  an  old  servant  of  Clytemnestra’s, 
with  injunctions  to  make  all  speed  with  it  to  Argos; 
but  just  as  the  messenger  is  passing  the  borders  of  the 
camp,  he  is  seized  by  Menelaus,  who  breaks  the  seal, 
reads  the  missive,  and  hurries  to  upbraid  his  brother 
with  treachery  to  himself  and  the  general  cause  of 
Hellas.  A  sharp  debate  ensues  between  the  brothers — 
one  twitting  the  other  with  bad  faith;  the  other  taxing 
the  husband  of  Helen  with  want  of  proper  feeling  for 
his  niece  and  himself,  and  chiding  him  for  taking  such 


88 


EURIPIDES. 


pains  to  get  back  that  worthless  runaway,  liis  wife. 
“  If  I,”  lie  says, 

“  Before  ill  judging,  have  with  sobered  thought 
My  purpose  changed,  must  I  be  therefore  judged 
Heft  of  my  sense?  Thou  rather,  who  hast  lost 
A  wife  that  brings  thee  shame,  yet  dost  with  warmth 
"Wish  to  regain  her,  may  the  favoring  Gods 
Grant  thee  such  luck.  But  I  will  not  slay 
My  children. 

My  nights,  my  days,  would  pass  away  in  tears, 

Did  I  with  outrage  and  injustice  wrong 
Those  who  derive  their  life  from  me.” 

The  brothers  part  in  high  dudgeon,  Agamemnon 
remaining  on  the  stage;  and  to  him  a  messenger  enters, 
bearing  the  unwelcome  tidings  that  Clytcmnestra, 
Iphigenia,  and  the  infant  Orestes,  will  soon  make 
glad  his  eyes,  after  their  long  separation.  They  are 
close  to  the  camp,  though  they  have  not  yet  entered  it, 
for; 

“Wearied  with  this  length  of  way,  beside 
A  beauteous-flowing  fountain  they  repose, 

Themselves  refreshing,  and  their  steeds  unyoked 
Crop  the  fresh  herbage  of  the  verdant  mead.” 

“  Thou  Hast  my  thanks — go  in,"  says  the  now  utterly 
wretched  father  to  the  messenger,  and  then  tells  in 
soliloquy  his  woes  to  the  audience.  He  is  caught  in 
inextricable  toils.  Shall  he  cause  the  assembled  host  to 
rise  and  mutiny,  or  shall  lie  keep  his  rash  vow,  and  sac¬ 
rifice  his  darling  to  the  irate  goddess — “what  ruin  hath 
the  son  of  Priam  brought  on  me  and  my  house!” 

It  is  now  early  morning,  and  the  camp  is  astir,  and  a 
murmur,  gradually  getting  louder,  is  heard.  The  chief¬ 
tains  and  the  soldiers  are  greeting  the  queen  of  Argos 
and  Mycenae,  her  fair  daughter,  and  her  infant  son. 
But  before  they  enter,  Menelaus  has  hurried  back,  aud 


THE  TWO  IP  III  G  ENIA  8. 


09 


is  reconciled  to  his  royal  brother.  The  younger  king 
tells  his  liege  lord  that  speedy  repentance  has  followed 
on  the  heels  of  his  late  hasty  passion.  He  has  been 
moved  by  the  tears  of  the  distracted  father,  he  yields  to 
the  arguments  used  by  him: 

-  “  When  from  thine  eye  I  saw  thee  drop  the  tear, 

I  pitied  thee  and  wept  myself:  what  I  said  then 
I  now  unsay,  no  more  unkind  to  thee. 

Now  feel  I  as  thou  feelest— nay,  exhort  thee 
To  spare  thy  child;  for  what  hath  she  to  do, 

Thy  virgin  daughter,  with  my  erring  wife? 

Break  up  the  army,  let  the  troops  depart. 

Within  this  breast  there  beats  a  loving  heart. 

Love  or  ambition  shall  not  us  divide. 

Though  they  part  brethren  oft.” 

A  second  choral  song  follows  this  reconciliation 
scene;  and  then  the  chariot  that  has  brought  Clvtem- 
nostra  and  her  young  children  appears  on  the  right  baud 
of  the  royal  tent.  She  is  welcomed  by  the  Chorus,  and 
assisted  by  them  to  alight.  In  Clytemnestra,  Euripides 
shows  how  delicately  he  can  delineate  female  charac¬ 
ters,  and  how  happily  he  has  seized  the  opportunity  for 
exhibiting  the  Lady  Macbeth  or  Lucrezia  Borgia  of 
the  Greek  stage  as  a  loving  wife  and  mother.  The  seeds 
of  evil  passions  were  dormant  in  her  nature,  but  until 
she  was  deeply  wronged  they  bore  not  fruit.  Clytem¬ 
nestra  in  this  play  is  a  fond  mother,  a  trusting  wife,  a 
very  woman,  even  shy,  unpretending,  unversed  in 
courts  or  camps.  To  the  Chorus,  after  acknowledging 
their  “courtesy  and  gentleness  of  speech,”  she  says: 

“  I  hope  that  I  am  come 
To  happy  nuptials,  leading  her  a  bride. 

But  from  the  chariot  take  ttie  dowry-gifts, 

Brought  with  me  for  the  virgin:  to  the  house 
Bear  them  with  careful  hands  My  daughter,  leave 
The  chariot  novy,  and  place  upon  the  ground 


too 


EURIPIDES. 


Thy  delicate  foot.  Kind  women,  in  your  arms 
Receive  her— she  is  tender:  pidthee  too, 

Lend  me  a  hand,  that  I  may  leave  this  seat 
In  seemly  fashion.  Some  stand  by  the  yoke, 

Fronting  the  horses;  they  are  quick  of  eye, 

And  hard  to  rule  when  startled.  Now  receive 
This  child,  an  infant  still.  Dost  sleep,  my  boy? 

The  rolling  of  the  car  hath  wearied  thee : 

Yet  wake  to  see  thy  sister  made  a  bride; 

A  noble  youth,  the  bridegroom,  Thetis’  son, 

And  he  will  wed  into  a  noble  house.” 

She  enters  without  pomp  or  circumstance,  with  only  an 
attendant  or  two.  Knowing  his  name,  she  displays  no 
further  curiosity  about  the  supposed  bridegroom :  what¬ 
ever  her  husband  has  designed  must,  she  thinks,  be 
good.  She,  a  half-divine  princess  of  the  race  of  Tan¬ 
talus,  the  sister  of  Helen  and  of  the  great  Twin-Breth¬ 
ren,  the  consort  of  “the  king  of  men,”  is  nevertheless 
an  uninstructed  Grecian  housewife.  She  knows  noth¬ 
ing  of  the  genealogy  of  Achilles,  at  least  on  the  father’s 
side.  She  has  never  heard  of  the  Myrmidons:  she 
knows  not  where  Pthia  may  be:  she  asks  what  mortal 
or  what  goddess  became  the  wife  of  Peleus;  and  when 
told  that  she  is  the  sea-nymph  Thetis,  who  but  for  a 
warning  oracle  would  have  been  the  spouse  of  Jupiter, 
she  wonders  where  the  rites  of  Hymen  -were  celebrated, 
on  firm  land  or  in  some  ocean  cave.  The  childlike 
amazement  and  delight  of  Iphigenia  also  are  drawn 
by  a  master’s  hand.  Not  Thecla,  when  first  entering 
Wallenstein’s  palace  and  seeing  the  royal  state  by 
which  her  father  was  surrounded;  not  Miranda,  gazing 
for  the  first  time  upon  “  the  brave  new  world,”  *  are 


*  “  Oh  wonder! 

How  many  goodly  creatures  are  there  here! 

How  beauteous  mankind  is!  Oh,  brave  new  world 
That  has  such  people  in  it!” 


Tempest,”  act  v,  sc,  J, 


THE  TWO  imWENIAS, 


101 


more  delicate  creations  of  poetic  fancy  than  Iphi- 
genia. 

Bearing  in  mind  what  the  representation  of  strong 
emotions  can  be  on  the  modern  stage,  where  the  face 
and  Hiiibs  of  the  actors  are  free  to  exhibit  the  varying 
moods  of  a  tragic  character,  it  is  most  difficult,  or 
rather  impossible,  to  understand  how  passion  or  pathos 
could  be  interpreted  by  men  so  encumbered  as  the 
actors  were  on  the  ancient  stage  by  their  masks,  their 
high  boots,  and  their  cumbersome  robes.  And  as  the 
scene  in  which  Agamemnon  receives  the  newly-arrived 
Clytemnestra  and  his  daughter  is  a  mixed  one, — joy 
simulated,  fear  and  grief  suppressed,  on  his  part — hap¬ 
piness  in  the  unlooked-for  meeting  with  a  husband  and 
father,  and  hope  for  the  approaching  nuptials,  on 
theirs, — it  is  impossible  to  conceive  how  it  can  have 
been  adequately  represented.  The  painter  who  drew 
Agamemnon  at  Diana’s  altar  veiling  his  face  that  he 
might  not  look  on  his  victim,  had  at  least  an  opportun¬ 
ity  for  conveying  the  presence  of  grief  “too  deep  for 
tears.”  But  how  could  the  father’s  emotions  in  this 
scene  have  been  imparted  to  an  audience?  The  Greek 
actor  differed  little  from  a  statue  except  in  the  posses¬ 
sion  of  voice,  and  in  a  certain,  though  a  limited,  range 
of  expressive  gesture.  That  these  imperfect  means,  as 
they  appear  to  us,  sufficed  for  an  intelligent  and  suscep¬ 
tible  audience,  there  is  no  reason  to  doubt;  and  we 
must  content  ourselves  with  the  assurance  that  the  per¬ 
former  and  the  mechanist  supplied  all  that  was  then 
needed  for  the  full  expression  of  terror  and  pity. 

The  character  of  Achilles  is  delineated  with  great 
skill  and  felicity.  The  hero  of  the  Iliad  is  a  most  dra¬ 
matic  portraiture  of  one  who  has,  in  spite  of  his  pride 
and  wbfulness,  many  compensating  virtues,  If  his 


102 


EURIPIDES. 


passions  are  strong,  so  are  his  affections :  if  he  is  im¬ 
placable  to  mailed  foes,  he  is  generous  and  even  tender 
to  weeping  Priam :  he  knows  that  he  bears  a  doomed 
life  if  he  tarries  on  Trojan  ground,  yet  though  highly 
provoked  by  Agamemnon,  he  abides  constant  to^he 
oath  he  had  taken  as  one  of  the  suitors  of  Helen.  But 
the  Achilles  of  the  “Iphigenia,”  although  a  peerless 
soldier,  the  Paladin  of  the  Achtean  host — a  Greek 
Bayard,  “  sans  peur  et  sans  reproclie” — is  a  modest, 
nay,  even  a  shy  stripling,  blushing  like  a  girl  when  he 
comes  suddenly  into  the  presence  of  his  destined  bride 
and  her  mother:  not  easily  moved,  yet  perplexed  and 
indignant  in  the  extreme  when  he  discovers  that  his 
name  has  been  used  as  a  lure,  and  full  of  pity  for,  and 
prompt  to  aid,  the  unhappy  victims  of  a  cruel  and  un¬ 
natural  plot.  Achilles,  indeed,  in  the  hands  of  Euripides, 
is  an  anticipation  of  the  Knight  in  the  Canterbury 
Tales : 

“  And  though  that  he  was  worthy,  he  was  wys: 

And  of  his  port  as  meke  as  is  a  mayde: 

He  never  yit  no  vilonye  ne  sayde. 

In  al  his  lyf  unto  no  manner  wight: 

He  was  a  verry  perfit  gentii  knight.” 

No  chance  of  extricating  himself  from  the  dreadful 
consequences  of  his  summons  to  Clytemnestra  remains 
for  Agamemnon,  except  the  very  slender  one  of  per¬ 
suading  her  to  return  alone  to  Argos.  This  she  stoutly, 
and,  in  her  ignorance  of  his  secret  motive,  reasonably 
refuses  to  do.  A  sharp  connubial  encounter  ensues,  in 
which  Agamemnon  does  not  get  the  best  of  it.  A 
very  short  extract  only  can  be  afforded  to  their  con¬ 
troversy.  After  asking  sundry  pertinent  questions 
about  the  young  bridegroom  and  the  marriage  cere¬ 
mony—  it*  wbjch  the  speak  are  cross-purposes, 


THE  TWO  IPH1GEN1AS. 


103 


Clytemnestra  meaning  the  wedding,  while  Agamem. 
non’s  replies  covertly  allude  to  the  sacrifice — he  aston¬ 
ishes  her  by  a  most  unexpected  demand  upon  her  obe¬ 
dience!  “  Obey  you!”  she  exclaims;  “you  have  long 
trained  me  to  do  so,  but  in  what  am  I  now  to  show  my 
obedience?” 

*•  Agam.  To  Argos  go,  thy  charge  the  virgins  there. 

Clyt.  And  leave  my  daughter?  Who  shall  raise  the  torch? 

Agam.  The  light  to  deck  the  nuptials  I  will  hold. 

Clyt.  Custom  forbids;  nor  wouldst  thou  deem  it  seemly. 

Agam.  Nor  decent  that  thou  mix  with  banded  troops. 

Clyt.  But  decent  that  the  mother  give  the  daughter. 

Agam.  Let  me  persuade  thee. 

Clyt.  By  the  potent  Queen, 

Goddess  of  Argos,  no.  Of  things  abroad 
Take  thou  the  charge:  within  the  house  my  care 
8hall  deck  the  virgin’s  nuptials,  as  is  meet.” 

Agamemnon,  now  at  his  wits’  end,  says  he  will  go 
and  consult  Calchas,  and  hear  from  him  whether  any¬ 
thing  can  be  done  to  set  him  right  with  Diana. 

Matters  are  hurrying  to  a  crisis.  Achilles  enters,  after 
the  choral  song  has  ceased,  thinking  to  find  Agamemnon, 
and  then  to  inform  him  that  the  Myrmidons  are  on  the 
very  edge  of  mutiny,  and  that  he  cannot  hold  them  in 
much  longer.  He  says: 

“  With  impatient  instance  oft 
They  urge  me:  *  Why,  Achilles,  stay  we  here? 

What  tedious  length  of  time  is  yet  to  pass, 

To  Ilium  ere  we  sail?  Wouldst  thou  do  aught, 

Do  it,  or  lead  us  home:  nor  here  await 
The  sons  of  Atreus  and  their  long  delays.’*” 

Instead  of  his  commander  in-chief  he  finds  Clytem¬ 
nestra,  who  greatly  scandalizes  him  by  offering  her 
hand  to  her  destined  son  in-law.  She,  on  her  part,  is 
surprised  at  a  modesty  so  uncommon  in  young  men. 


104 


EURIPIDES . 


The  old  slave,  the  same  whom  Menelaus  so  roughly 
handles  at  the  opening  of  the  drama,  now  conies  for¬ 
ward  and  unfolds  the  mytsery.  Clytemnestra  sues  to 
the  captain  of  the  Myrmidons  for  protection  against 
the  cruel  “black-bearded  kings:”  he  is  highly  incensed 
at  having  been  made  a  cat’s-paw  of  by  Agamemnon, 
Calchas  the  seer,  and  the  crafty  Ulysses,  and  promises 
to  do  all  in  his  power  to  rescue  Iphigenia  from  her 
fearful  doom,  even  at  any  risk  to  himself  from  his  im¬ 
patient  soldiers. 

Agamemnon  now  reappears.  Ignorant  that  his  wife 
is  now  furnished  with  all  the  facts  he  had  withheld,  he 
is  greatly  discomfited  by  her  upbraiding  him  with  his 
weak  and  wicked  consent  to  the  sacrifice  of  Iphigenia. 
After  threatening  him  with  her  vengeance — a  threat  she 
some  years  later  fulfilled — she  descends  to  entreaties, 
and  prays  him  to  spare  their  child.  And  now  comes 
the  most  affecting  scene  of  the  tragedy.  Iphigenia, 
aware  that  she  is  not  the  destined  bride  but  the  chosen 
victim,  implores  her  father  to  change  his  purpose;  and 
the  more  to  prevail  with  him,  brings  in  her  arms  her 
infant  brother,  Orestes,  to  move  him  to  spare  her.  Aga  ¬ 
memnon,  however,  declares  he  is  so  compromised  with 
the  Greeks  that  he  cannot  recede.  His  own  life  will 
be  in  danger  from  the  infuriated  host,  if  lie  any  longer 
withholds  the  appointed  victim.  Again  Achilles  rushes 
on  with  the  news  that  his  soldiers  have  sworn  to  kill 
him,  if  for  the  sake  of  a  young  maiden  he  any  longer 
detains  them  at  Aulis.  And  now  the  daughter  of  a 
line  of  heroes  shows  herself  heroic.  She  will  be  the 
victim  whom  the  goddess  demands.  Troy  shall  fall; 
Greece  shall  triumph;  in  place  of  marriage  and  happy 
years,  she  will  die  for  the  common  weal.  Her  father 
shall  be  glorious  to  all  ages:  she  will  be  content  with 


THE  TWO  IPHI  GEN  IAS, 


105 


the  renown  of  saving  Hellas.  With  much  compunc* 
tion,  and  with  some  hesitation  on  the  part  of  the  chiv¬ 
alrous  Achilles,  all  now  accept  the  stern  necessity.  In 
solemn  procession,  and  with  funeral  chant  sung  by 
the  victim  and  the  Chorus,  she  goes  to  the  altar  of 
Diana.  The  end  of  the  tragedy,  as  we  have  it,  is  prob¬ 
ably  spurious,  so  far  as  the  substitution  of  the  fawn 
is  concerned.  The  real  conclusion  seems  to  have  been 
the  appearance  of  the  goddess  over  the  tent  of  Aga¬ 
memnon,  to  inform  the  weeping  mother  that  her 
daughter  is  not  dead,  but  borne  away  to  a  remote  land, 
the  Tauric  Chersonese.  They  are  parted  forever,  yet 
there  may  be  consolation  in  knowing  Iphigenia  has 
not  descended  to  the  gloomy  Hades,  “  the  bourne  from 
which  no  traveller  returns.” 

Mr.  Palev  remarks,  with  his  unfailing  insight  into 
the  pith  and  marrow  of  the  Grecian  drama,  that  “Aris¬ 
totle  cites  the  character  of  Iphigenia  at  Aulis  as  an 
example  of  want  of  consistency  or  uniformity;  since 
she  first  supplicates  for  life,  and  afterwards  consents  to 
die.  It  is  difficult  to  attribute  much  weight  to  the 
criticism,  though  it  comes  with  the  sanction  of  a  great 
name.  The  part  of  Iphigenia  throughout  appears  sin¬ 
gularly  natural.  Her  first  impulse  is  to  live;  but  when 
she  clearly  perceives  how  much  depends  on  her  volun¬ 
tary  death,  and  how  Achilles,  her  champion,  is  com¬ 
promised  by  his  dangerous  resolve  to  save  her — lastly, 
how  the  Greeks  are  bent  on  the  expedition,  from 
motives  of  national  honor — she  yields  herself  up  a  will¬ 
ing  victim.  It  would  be  quite  as  reasonable  to  object 
to  Menelaus’s  sudden  change  of  purpose,  from  demand- 
ing  the  death  of  the  maid,  to  the  refusing  to  consent 
to  it. 


10(5 


EURIPIDES. 


IPHIGENIA  AT  TAURI. 

Twenty  years  have  passed  since  the  concluding  scene 
of  “Iphigenia  in  Aulis”  before  the  opening  of  this 
drama.  Ten  years  were  spent  in  the  siege  of  Troy, 
another  ten  in  the  return  of  the  surviving  heroes  to 
their  homes.  From  the  moment  when  the  young 
daughter  of  Agamemnon  is  borne  away  from  the  altar 
at  Aulis,  she  has  been  devoted  to  the  service  of  Diana 
at  Tauri — a  goddess  who,  like  the  ferocious  deities  of 
the  Mexicans,  delighted  in  the  savor  of  human  blood. 
From  that  moment,  also,  Iphigenia  has  remained 
ignorant  of  the  great  events  that  have  taken  place  since 
her  rescue.  She  knows  not  that  Troy  has  fallen;  that 
her  father  has  been  murdered  and  avenged;  that  her 
brother  Orestes  and  her  sister  Electra  yet  live,  but 
under  the  ban  of  gods  and  men;  or  that  Helen,  the 
“direful  spring”  of  so  many  woes  to  Greece,  is  once 
more  queen  at  Sparta.  Little  chance,  indeed,  was  there 
of  her  getting  news  of  her  couutry  or  kindred  in  the  in¬ 
hospitable  country  to  which  she  had  been  brought. 
The  land  where  Tauri*  stood  was  shunned  by  all 
Greeks,  for  the  welcome  awaiting  them  there  was  death 
on  the  altar  of  the  goddess,  to  whom  men  of  their  race 
were  the  most  acceptable  of  victims. 

But  the  end  of  her  long  exile  and  the  hour  assigned 
for  her  restoration  to  home  and  kindred  were  at  hand. 
A  Greek  vessel  arrives  at  this  remote  and  barbarous 
region;  and  two  strangers,  immediately  after  the 
priestess  of  Diana  lias  spoken  a  kind  of  prologue,  come 
upon  the  stage,  and  cautiously,  as  persons  afraid  of 


*  The  action  of  the  play  Is  fixed  at  the  now  historic  Balaclava, 
In  the  Crimea. 


IPMGENtA  AT  TAVfit. 


107 


being  seen,  survey  tlie  temple,  j.  Though  they  have  had 
foul  weather  and  rough  seas,  they  are  not  shipwrecked, 
but  have  come  with  a  special  object  to  this  perilous 
land.  *  That  object  is  apparently  of  the  most  desperate 
kind,  for  the  strangers  are  not  only  Greeks,  but  have 
come,  in  obedience  to  an  oracle,  to  carry  off  and  transport 
to  Attica  the  tutelary  goddess  of  Tauri.  In  the  prologue 
the  audience  is  prepared  to  recognize  in  the  two  persons 
on  the  stage  Orestes  and  his  friend  Py lades;  for  Iphi- 
genia  relates  a  dream  she  has  had  on  the  previous  night, 
but  which  she  misinterprets.  She  believes  it  to  mean 
that  Orestes,  whom  she  had  left  an  infant  at  Aulis,  is 
dead,  and  proposes  to  offer  libations  to  his  shade. 
Orestes  and  his  friend,  having  satisfied  themselves  that 
this  is  the  temple  whence  the  image,  by  force  or  fraud, 
must  be  taken  away,  retire  and  give  place  to  the  Chorus, 
not  indeed  without  some  misgivings  on  the  part  of 
Orestes  as  to  the  possibility  of  executing  their  enjoined 
task.  “  The  walls  are  high,”  he  says — ‘‘the  doors  are 
barred  with  brass;”  even  if  we  can  climb  the  one  and 
force  the  other,  how  shall  we  escape  the  watchful  eyes 
of  those  who  guard  the  shrine  or  dwell  in  the  city?  If 
detected,  we  shall  be  put  to  death : 

**  Shall  we,  then,  ere  we  die,  by  flight  regain 
The  ship,  in  which  we  hither  ploughed  the  sea?” 

“  Of  flight  we  must  not  think, **  rejoins  Pylndes;  il  the 
god’s  command  must  be  obeyed.  But  we  have  seen 
enough  of  the  temple  for  the  present;  and  now  let  us 
retire  to  some  cave  where 

“  We  may  lie  concealed 

At  distance  from  our  ship,  lest  some,  whose  eiywi 

May  note  It,  bear  the  tiding^  fd  the  king! 

And  we  he  seiaed  by  force.” 


108 


mmpiMs. 


What  Pylades  had  dreaded  happens.  The  Chorus, 
as  soon  as  their  song,  in  which  Iphigenia  takes  a  part, 
is  ended,  say  to  her, — 

“  Leaving  the  sea- washed  shore  an  herdsman  comes, 
Speeding  with  some  fresh  tidings.” 

The  herdsman’s  report  of  what  he  has  Seen  is  most 
strange  and  exciting  to  the  hearers  of  it.  He  opens  it 
with  apprising  the  priestess  that  she  must  get  all  things 
ready  for  a  sacrifice,  for 

“Two  youths,  swift  rowing  ’twixt  the  dashing  rocks 
Of  our  wild  sea.  are  landed  on  the  beach, 

A  grateful  offering  at  Diana’s  shrine. 

At  first  one  of  my  comrades  took  them,  as  they  sat 
in  the  cavern,  for  two  deities;  but  another  said,  they  are 
wrecked  mariners:  and  he  was  in  the  right,  as  soon  it 
proved;  for  one  of  the  twain  was  suddenly  seized  with 
madness,  while  the  other  soothed  him  in  his  frenzy, — 

“  Wiped  off  the  foam,  took  of  his  person  care, 

And  spread  his  fine  robe  over  him. 

“The  mad  one  had  assailed  our  herds,  mistaking  them, 
it  seems,  for  certain  Furies  that  hunt  him;  whereupon 
we,  seeing  the  havoc  he  was  making,  blew  our  horns, 
called  the  neighbors  to  our  aid,  and  at  last,  after  a 
desperate  resistance  from  these  strange  visitors!  we 
captured  them  both,— 

“  And  bore  them  to  the  monarch  of  this  landi 
He  viewed  them,  and  without  delay  to  thee 
Sent  them,  devoted  to  the  cleansing  vase 
And  to  the  altar.” 

Hitherto  the  hand  of  Iphigenia  is  unspotted  by  the 
blood  Of  human  victims  The  prisoners  are  the  first 


imiQMlA  AT  TAURl. 


109 


Greeks  who  have  landed  on  this  fatal  coast.  She  is 
still  under  the  influence  of  her  dream.  Her  convic¬ 
tion  that  Orestes  is  dead,  her  remembrance  of  the 
wrong  done  to  her  at  Aulis,  combine  to  harden  her 
against  the  prisoners  before  they  are  presented  to  her. 
When,  however,  she  has  seen  and  interrogated  them 
as  to  their  nation  and  whence  they  come,  her  mood 
changes.  Her  ignorance  of  what  has  taken  place  since 
she  left  Argos  is  now  dispersed.  Not  only  does  she 
learn  that  the  Greeks  have  taken  Troy  and  returned  to 
their  homes,  but  also  that  Orestes  is  living.  He  evades, 
indeed,  her  questions  as  to  himself;  he  will  not  dis¬ 
close  bis  name  and  parentage,  and  is  unaware  that  his 
sister  stands  before  him.  “  Argives  both  are  ye?”  she 
says,  “then  one  of  you  shall  be  spared,  and  he  shall 
take  a  letter  from  me  to  my  brother.”  Then  follows 
the  celebrated  contest  between  the  pair  of  friends  as  to 
which  of  them  shall  do  her  commission.  The  deeply 
affecting  character  of  this  scene  was  felt  in  all  lands 
where  the  tragedy  was  represented.  “What  shouts, 
what  excitement,”  says  Lselius,  “pervaded  the  theatre 
at  the  representation  of  my  friend  Pacuvius’s  new  play, 
when  the  contest  took  place  between  Orestes  and  Pyla- 
des,  each  claiming  the  privilege  of  dying  for  the  other.”  * 
Theu  comes  the  recognition  between  the  long-parted 
brother  and  sister.  Iphigenia  will  not  trust  to  mere 
oral  communication.  She  will  write  as  well  as  give  a 
verbal  message.  She  reads  the  letter  to  the  captives. 
She  takes  this  precaution  for  two  reasons ; 

“If  thou  preserve 

This  letter,  that,  though  silent,  will  declare 

My  purport;  if  it  perish  in  the  sea, 

Saving  thyself  my  words  too  shalt  thou  save.” 


*  Utoertf  b«  ffktachfcipi  ts  t. 


110 


mmpiMB. 


Brother  and  sister  are  now  made  manifest  to  each 
other.  The  priestess  is  the  long-lost  Ipliigeuia:  the 
stranger  is  the  brother  whom  she  had  held  an  infant 
in  her  arms,  and  whom  she  was  mourning  as  dead.  The 
method  by  which  iEsehylus  and  Sophocles  bring  about 
the  discovery  is  consistent  with  their  sublimer  genius; 
that  which  Euripides  adopts  is  equally  consonant  with 
his  more  human  temperament,  no  less  than  with  his 
views  of  dramatic  art. 

The  deliverance  of  the  friends  and  the  priestess  is  still 
hard  to  accomplish;  they  are  begirt  with  peril.  Iphi* 
genia  knows  too  well  the  religious  rigor  of  the  Taurian 
king.  Thoas  is  a  devout  worshipper  of  Diana;  is  an 
inexorable  foe  to  Greeks.  His  subjects  and  his  guards 
are  equally  hostile  towards  strangers  and  loyal  to  their 
goddess.  If  they  caunot  escape,  the  intruders  will  be 
immolated,  and  the  priestess  be  a  third  victim  on  the 
blood-stained  altar.  And  now  Iphigenia  proves  that  she 
is  Greek  to  the  core.  She  can  plot  craftily :  she  will  even 
hazard  the  wrath  of  a  deity  by  a  timely  fraud.  |  King 
Thoas,  little  more  than  a  simple  country  gentleman, 
dividing  his  time  between  field  sports  and  ceremonies 
sacred  or  civil,  is  no  match  for  three  wily  Greeks. 
“The  statue  of  Diana, ”  she  tells  him,  “must  be  taken 
down  to  the  beach  and  purified  by  the  sen;  the  two 
strangers,  before  they  are  sacrificed,  must  undergo  lus¬ 
tration,0  “Take  the  caitiffs  by  all  means.”  he  says, 
4*to  the  shore.  A  guard  must  attend  you.  for  they  are 
stalwart  knaves;  one  of  them  has  murdered  his  mother, 
and  tile  other  prompted  and  abetted  him  in  that  foul 
crime.”  For  a  while  the  soldiers  are  persuaded  to  ieave 
Iphigenia  alone  with  the  strangers,  while  she  performs 
tile  necessary  rites.  At  length  her  delay  rouses  their 
Buspiciuii)  and  they  discover  that*  so  far  from  render- 


IPIIIGENIA  AT  TAUBZ 


111 


ing  the  statue  and  the  prisoners  meet  for  the  sacrifice, 
they  are  plotting  not  only  flight,  but  theft.  One  of 
them  brings  the  intelligence  to  Thoas: 

“At  length  we  all  resolved 
To  go,  though  not  permitted,  where  they  were. 

There  we  beheld  the  Grecian  bark  with  oars 
Well  furnished,  winged  for  flight;  and  at  their  seats 
Grasping  their  oars  were  fifty  rowers:  free 
From  chains  beside  the  stern  the  two  youths  stood. 

.  .  .  .  .  Debate 

Now  rose:  What  mean  you,  sailing  o'er  the  seas,’ 

The  statue,  and  the  priestess  from  the  land 
By  stealth  conveying?  Whence  art  thou,  and  who, 

That  bear’st  her,  like  a  purchased  slave,  away  ? 

He  said,  I  am  her  brother,  be  of  this 
Informed,  Orestes,  son  of  Agamemnon; 

My  sister,  so  long  lost,  I  bear  away, 

Recovered  here.” 

* 

Orestes  and  his  crew  release  Iphigenia  from  the 
guards,  and  drive  them  up  the  rocks, — 

“  With  dreadful  marks 

Disfigured  and  bloody  bruises:  from  the  heights 
We  hurled  at  them  fragments  of  rock:  but  vainly. 

The  bowmen  with  their  arrows  drove  us  thence.” 

The  sea,  however,  swept  back  the  galley  to  the 
beach,  and  not  even  the  fifty  rowers  can  propel  it  out 
of  harbor. 

“  Haste  then,  O  king, 

Take  chains  and  gyves  with  thee;  for  if  the  flood 
Subside  not  to  a  calm,  there  is  no  hope 
Of  safety  for  the  strangers.” 

Thoas  needs  no  prompter.  He  calls  to  the  people  of 
Tauri  to  avenge  this  insult  to  their  goddess; 

“  Harness  your  steeds  at  once:  will  you  not  fly 
Along  the  shore,  to  seize  whate'er  this  ship 
Of  Greece  casts  forth,  and,  for  your  goddess  roused, 


113 


EURIPIDES. 


Hunt  down  these  impious  men?  Will  you  not  launch 
Instant  your  swift-oared  barks  by  seas,  on  land 
To  catch  them,  from  the  rugged  rock  to  hurl 
Their  bodies,  or  impale  them  on  the  stake.” 

To  the  Chorus  he  hints  that,  inasmuch  as  they  have 
known  all  along  and  concealed  the  dark  designs  of  the 
recreant  priestess  and  her  two  confederates  in  this  sac¬ 
rilegious  crime,  he  will,  at  more  leisure,  “  devise  brave 
punishments”  for  them. 

The  capture  of  the  fugitives  is  unavoidable;  and  if 
they  are  once  more  in  his  grasp,  the  pious  and  wrath¬ 
ful  king  will  leave  no  member  of  Agamemnon’s  family 
alive  except  the  sad  and  solitary  Electra.  Euripides 
now  settles  the  matter  by  his  usual  device,  an  inter¬ 
vening  deity.  Pallas  Athene  appears  above  the  temple 
of  Diana,  and  apprises  Thoas  that  it  is  her  pleasure 
that  both  the  priestess  and  the  image  shall  be  carried 
to  Greece  by  Orestes,  where  the  worship  of  the  Taurian 
Artemis,  purged  of  its  sanguinary  rites,  shall  be  estab¬ 
lished  at  Halse  and  Brauron  in  Attica.  Thoas  is  satis¬ 
fied.  .  Agamemnon’s  children  are  free  to  depart;  and 
Pylades,  as  a  reward  for  his  long-enduring  friendship, 
is  to  marry  Electra. 

Should  this  drama,  in  virtue  of  its  happy  conclu¬ 
sion,  be  accounted,  along  with  the  “  Alcestis”  and  the 
“  Helen”  of  Euripides,  a  tragi  comedy?  In  one  respect 
the  “Iphigenia  at  Tauri”  stands  apart  from  these 
plays.  In  the  former,  there  is  something  approaching 
to  the  comic  in  the  person  of  Hercules;  in  the  latter, 
something  even  risible  in  the  garb  of  Meuelaus,  and  in 
his  conversation  with  the  old  woman  who  is  hall-porter 
in  the  palace  of  Theoclymenus.  The  drama,  however, 
that  has  now  been  examined,  is  from  its  beginning  to 


THE  BACCHANALS. 


113 


its  end  full  of  action,  excitement,  suspense,  dread,  and 
uncertainty.  The  doom  of  a  race,  as  well  as  individuals, 
is  at  stake;  and  the  prospect  of  the  principal  characters 
is  gloomy  in  the  extreme,  until  their  rescue  by  a  deity 
delivers  them  from  further  suffering.  Both  “Iphi- 
genias”  derive  much  of  their  attractions  for  all  times 
and  ages  from  the  deeply  domestic  tenor  of  the  story. 
“How  many  ‘ Iphi genias ’  have  been  written  1”  said 
Goethe.  “Yet  they  are  all  different,  for  each  writer 
manages  the  subject  after  his  own  fashion.” 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE  BACCHANALS. 

“Over  wide  streams  and  mountains  great  we  went, 

And,  save  when  Bacchus  kept  his  ivy -tent, 

Onward  the  tiger  and  the  leopard  pants 
With  Asian  elephants: 

We  follow  Bacchus !  Bacchus  on  the  wing, 
A-conquering! 

Bacchus,  young  Bacchus !  good  or  ill  betide 
We  dance  before  him  thorough  kingdoms  wide: 

Come  hither,  lady  fair,  and  joined  be 
To  our  wild  minstrelsy.” 

—Keats:  “Endymion.” 

This  is  the  only  extant  Greek  tragedy  connected  with 
the  wanderings  and  worship  of  the  wine-god,  at  whose 
festivals  the  Greek  tlireatres  were  open,  and  from  song 
and  dance  in  whose  honor  the  drama  of  Greece  derived 
its  origin.  The  subject,  when  Euripides  took  it  up, 
was  not  new  to  the  stage.  Among  the  dramas  ascribed 
to  Thespis,  one  was  entitled  “Peutheus;”  and  another 
by  him,  “The  Bachelors,”  may  have  treated  of  Lycurgus, 
also  a  vehement  opposer  of  Bacchic  rites.  .<Eschylus 


114 


EURIPIDES. 


exhibited  two  trilogies,  in  which  Pentheus  and  Lycurgus 
were  the  principal  characters.  The  serene  nnise  of 
Sophocles  appears  to  have  avoided  such  exciting 
themes. 

“The  Bacchanals”  was  not  brought  out  in  the  life¬ 
time  of  Euripides.  It  was  exhibited  by  a  younger  man 
of  the  same  name,  his  son  or  his  nephew.  If  it  were, 
as  it  is  supposed  to  have  been,  the  work  of  one  far 
advanced  in  years,  it  displays  no  trace  of  declining 
powers,  and,  in  that  respect,  is  on  a  par  with  the 
Sophoclean  “  CEdipus  at  Colonos.”  From  its  scenes  and 
subject  it  was  probably  composed  after  Euripides  had 
quitted  Athens;  and  there  may  have  been  reasons  for 
his  writing  this  tragedy  at  Pella,  as  a  compliment  to 
his  host  and  patron  Archelaus.  The  play,  indeed,  was 
well  suited  to  the  genius  of  the  laud,  and  the  people 
before  whom  it  was  represented.  Northern  Greece, 
Macedonia,  and  the  adjoining  districts,  were  devout 
worshippers  of  Bacchus,  both  in  faith  and  prac  ice. 
Alexander's  “captains  and  colonels  and  knights  at 
arms”  astonished  the  more  sober  Asiatics  by  their 
capacity  for  deep  potations.  The  women  of  Thrace, 
Thessaly,  and  Macedonia,  when  the  purple  vintage 
was  garnered,  and  the  vats  overflowed  with  red  juice, 
celebrated  harvest-home  by  putting  on  ivy-chaplets 
and  tunics  made  of  lion  or  deer  skins,  by  brandishing 
the  thyrsus,  and  by  wild  and  violent  dauces.  Olym¬ 
pias,  the  mother  of  Alexander,  was  a  Bacchant  and 
at  certain  seasons  of  the  year  whirled  around  the  altars 
of  the  god,  with  snakes  depending  from  her  girdle  and 
her  hair.  In  this  picturesque,  if  rather  ravage  dress, 
she  is  said  to  have  won  the  heart  of  King  Philip,  him¬ 
self  a  most  loyal  subject  of  the  jovial  deity. 

The  poet  of  “  The  Bacchanals,”  now  a  voluntary  exile 


THE  BAQOHAEALS. 


115 


at  Pella,  seems  to  have  reinvigorated  himself  under  a 
new  sky,  and  to  exult  in  his  freedom.  He  had  gone 
from  a  land  tamed  and  domesticated  by  the  hand  of 
man,  to  a  land  in  which  nature  was  still  imperfectly 
subdued.  In  the  place  of  vineyards,  oliveyards,  and 
gardens,  forests  and  mountains  greeted  his  eyes. 
Broad  rivers  were  in  the  room  of  the  narrow  and 
uncertain  streams  that  watered  Attica.  The  snows 
on  Mount  Parnes  disappeared  when  the  sun  rode  in 
Cancer;  but  they  never  departed  from  the  sides  and 
summits  of  Ossa  and  Olympus.  There  is  a  Salvator- 
like  grandeur  in  the  scenery  described  in  “The  Bac¬ 
chanals.”  The  action  of  the  play  lies  indeed  in  Bceotia; 
but,  instead  of  loamy  fields  and  sluggish  rivers,  we  are 
placed  among  rocks  where  the  eagle  builds  her  eyry,  or 
among  forests  tenanted  by  the  wolf  and  bear. 

The  religious  elements  in  “The  Bacchanals”  are 
worth  noticing,  since  they  differ  widely  from  those 
commonly  found  in  other  plays  of  its  author.  The 
presiding  god  is  a  terrible  as  well  as  a  powerful  being. 
He  admits  of  no  half-service;  he  cannot  abide  skeptics; 
he  makes  short  work  with  opponents.  All  such  free 
and  easy  dealing  with  the  gods  as  are  met  with  in 
“  The  Phrenzy  of  Hercules”  or  the  “  Electra”  disappears. 
Perhaps  the  Macedonians  were  not  sufficiently  civilized 
to  relish  tampering  with  old  beliefs;  There  may  also 
have  been  a  change  in  the  feelings  of  the  aged  poet 
himself.  He  may  have  said  to  himself,  “What  has  it 
profited  me  to  have  so  long  striven  to  make  others  see 
more  clearly?  Would  it  not  have  been  wiser  to  do  as 
my  friend  Sophocles  has  ever  done,  and  view  both 
gods  and  social  relations  with  the  eyes  of  the  vulgar?” 
Uuimpalred  as  his  mental  force  must  have  been  for  him 
Vo  write  such  a  tragedy  as  *'  The  Bacchanals,’*  his  bodily 


lie 


mmPiDES. 


strength  may  have  been  touched  by  years.  We  are  not 
told  whether  either  of  his  wives  accompanied  him  to 
Pella;  if  neither  of  them  were  with  him,  there  was  the 
less  occasion  for  philosophy.  Whatever  the  cause  may 
have  been,  there  is  more  faith  than  doubt  or  speculation 
to  be  found  in  this  tragedy. 

The  action  of  “  The  Bacchanals”  is  laid  in  a  remote 
age,  and  there  is  an  Oriental  quite  as  much  as  a  Greek 
savor  in  the  poetry.  Cadmus,  who  has  ceded  the 
Theban  sceptre  to  his  grandson  Pentheus,  was  by  birth 
a  Phoenician,  not  a  Boeotian.  He  lived  before  the 
Greek  Argo  had  rushed  through  the  blue  Symplegades 
to  the  Colchian  strand.  He  is  beyond  recorded 
time;  he  “ antiquates”  common  “antiquity.”  His  in¬ 
tercourse  with  the  gods  has  been  intimate,  but  not 
happy.  Jupiter  had  taken  a  fancy  to  his  sister  Europa, 
and  to  one  of  his  daughters — and  by  her,  Semele,  he  is, 
though  long  unaware  of  it,  grandfather  to  Bacchus. 

When  the  play  opens,  all  Thebes — its  male  popula¬ 
tion,  at  least — is  perplexed  in  the  extreme.  The  women 
are  all  gone  mad :  they  are  off  to  the  mountains,  and 
many  of  them  have  taken  their  children  w'ith  them; 
for  their  customary  suits  they  have  donned  fawn-skins; 
they  brandish  poles  wreathed  with  ivy;  shouting  and 
siuging,  dancing  and  leaping,  they  scour  the  plains, 
climb  the  hills,  and  scare  the  fox  and  the  wild  cat  from 
their  holes.  From  this  sudden  mania  neither  age  nor 
rank  is  free:  sober  housewives  are  themselves  doing 
what  a  few  days  before  they  would  have  blushed  to  see 
done  by  others.  Even  the  Queen  Agav&  and  her  attend¬ 
ant  ladies  are  swept  into  the  vortex,  and  prance  like  so 
many  peasant  girls  at  a  wake. 

The  cause  of  this  strange  and  unseemly  revel  is  the 
appearance  in  Bneotia  of  a  young  man  of  handsome 


Tim  BACCHANALS. 


11? 


presence,  with  flowing  locks  like  grape-bunches.  find  a 
delicate,  yet  somewhat  ruddy  visage.  His  errand  to 
Thebes  is  a  strange  one.  He  pretends  to  be  a  native 
of  that  city;  he  points  to  a  charred  mound  of  earth  as 
his  mother’s  grave,  and,  wondrous  to  relate,  since  he 
first  visited  it,  the  blackened  turf  is  covered  and 
canopied  over  with  a  luxuriant  vine!  He  began  by 
claiming  near  kinship  with  the  royal  house  of  Cadmus; 
and  because  the  female  members  scoffed  at  his  pre* 
tensions,  he  drives  them  insane.  His  retinue  are  as 
strange  as  his  errand.  It  is  composed  of  dark-eyed 
swarthy  women,  such  as  might  be  seen  in  the  streets 
of  Tyre  and  Sidon  celebrating  the  feast  of  AstartS 
with  dance  and  song.  The  dull,  yet  by  no  means 
sober,  Boeotians  cannot  tell  what  to  make  of  these 
eccentric  visitors.  Some  think  that  the  magistrates — 
the  Bceotarchs — should  clap  them  into  the  town  jail; 
but  how  to  catch,  and,  when  caught,  how  to  keep,  these 
wild  damsels  is  the  difficulty;  for  they  are  as  slippery 
to  handle  as  the  eels  in  Lake  Copal's,  and  as  fierce  as 
the  lynxes  that  swarm  on  Mount  Cithteron.  Never 
had  Thebes,  since  Amphion  had  drawn  the  stones  of 
its  walls  together  by  his  minstrelsy,  been  in  such  per¬ 
turbation. 

Who  the  young  stranger  with  grape-bunch  locks  is, 
the  audience  are  told  by  himself  in  the  prologue.  He 
is  what  he  pretends  to  be,  the  son  of  Jupiter  and 
Semele.  He  has  travelled  far  before  he  came  to  Thebes 
to  establish  his  rites  and  claim  his  kindred.  “  I  have 
left,”  he  says, 

“The  golden  Lydian  shores, 

The  Phrygian  and  the  Persian  sun-seared  plains, 

And  Bactria’s  walls;  the  Medes’  wild,  wintry  land 
Have  passed,  and  Araby  the  blest;  and  all 

6<  A«a  that  along  tile  salfr-sea  coast 


118 


BVB1P10MS. 


Lifts  up  her  high -towered  cities,  where  the  Greeks, 

With  the  Barbarians  mingled,  dwell  in  peace.”* 

Hitherto,  wherever  I  have  come,  mankind  has  ac¬ 
knowledged  me  a  god:  the  first  opposition  I  have 
met  with  is  in  this  the  first  Hellenic  town  I  have 
entered: 

*  But  here,  where  least  beseemed,  my  mother’s  sisters 
Vowed  Dionysus  was  no  son  of  Jove; 

That  Seinele,  by  mortal  paramour  won, 

Belied  great  Jove  as  author  of  her  sin; 

’Twas  but  old  Cadmus'  craft:  hence  Jove  in  wrath 
Struck  dead  the  bold  usurper  of  his  bed.” 

In  requital  for  such  usage,  he  has  goaded  all  the 
women  of  Thebes  into  frenzy: 

There's  not  a  woman  of  old  Cadmus’  race 
But  I  have  maddened  from  her  quiet  house; 

Unseemly  mingled  with  the  sons  of  Thebes, 

On  the  roofless  rocks  ’neath  the  pale  pines  they  sit.” 

Cadmus  the  king,  and  Tireoias  the  seer,  well  know¬ 
ing  that  Bacchus  is  really  what  he  assumes  to  be— 
after  a  little  hesitation  about  their  uovel  attire  in  fawn- 
skins,  their  ivy-crown,  and  thyrsu^,  determine  to  join 
the  Bacchanal  rout;  and  Tiresias,  as  the  king’s  ghostly 
confessor,  preaches  to  him  the  following  doctrine, 
Sound  indeed  in  itself,  but  uncommon  in  Euripidean 
drama : 

“  No  wile,  no  paltering  with  the  deities. 

The  ancestral  faith,  coeval  with  our  race; 

No  subtle  reasoning,  If  it  soar  aloft, 

Even  to  the  height  of  wisdom,  can  o’erthrow,’* 

Their  purpose,  however,  to  speed  at  once  to  the 


,  *  The  translated  passages  are  aU  takes  front  Peas  Miltftaii’6 

Version  of  thW  a  flams. 


THE  BACCHANALS. 


119 


mountains,  is  stayed  by  the  entrance  of  Pentbeus,  who 
has  been  absent  from  home,  but  has  come  back,  in  hot 
haste,  on  hearing  of  these  si  range  and  evil  doings  in  his 
city.  He  will  crush,  lie  will  stamp  out,  this  pestilent 
new  religiou — a  religion  having  in  it  quite  as  much  of 
Venus  as  of  Bacchus.  Gyves  and  the  prison-house 
shall  be  the  portion  of  these  wild  women;  and  as  for 
that  wizard  from  the  land  of  Lydia — 

“  If  I  catch  him  ’neath  this  roof,  I’ll  silence 
The  beatings  of  his  thyrsus,  stay  his  locks’ 

Wild  tossing,  from  his  body  severing  his  head.” 

As  for  his  grandsire,  and  the  “blind  prophet”  his 
companion,  he  cannot  marvel  enough  at  their  folly:  nay, 
wroth  as  he  is,  he  can  scarcely  help  laughing  at  their 
fawn  skin  robes.  “However,”  he  proceeds,  “I  know 
which  of  you  two  fatuous  old  men  is  most  in  fault,  and 
I  will  take  such  order  with  him  as  shall  spoil  his  pro¬ 
phecies  for  some  time  to  come: 

“  Some  one  go; 

The  seats  from  which  he  spies  the  flight  of  birds, 

False  augur,  with  the  iron  forks  o’erthrow, 

Scattering  in  wild  confusion  all  abroad. 

And  cast  his  chaplets  to  the  winds  and  storms.” 

The  elders  implore  him  to  cease  from  his  blasphemies: 
and  Cadmus,  rather  prudently  than  honestly,  counsels 
him  to  profess  faith  in  the  new  deity,  if  for  no  other 
reason,  yet  for  the  credit  of  the  family: 

“  Even  if,  as  thou  declar'st,  he  were  no  God, 

Call  thou  him  God.  It  were  a  splendid  falsehood 
If  Semele  be  thought  t’  have  borne  a  God.” 

But  Pentbeus  spurns  this  accommodating  advice,  and 
Cadmus  and  Tiresias  wend  their  way  to  the  Bacchanal 
camp  on  the  mountains.  The  Chorus  takes  up  the 


120 


EURIPIDES, 


charge  of  blasphemy,  and  hints  at  the  end  awaiting  the 
impious  king: 

“  Of  tongue  unbridled,  without  awe. 

Of  madness  spurning  holy  law, 

Sorrow  is  the  heaven-doomed  close: 

But  the  life  of  calm  repose, 

And  modest  reverence,  holds  her  state, 

Unbroken  by  disturbing  fate; 

And  knits  whole  houses  in  the  tie 
Of  sweet  domestic  harmony. 

Beyond  the  range  of  mortal  eyes 
’Tis  not  wisdom  to  be  wise.” 

The  wish  of  Pentheus  to  have  in  his  power  the  deluder 
of  the  Theban  women  is  soon  gratified.  Bacchus,  in  a 
comely  human  form,  is  brought  manacled  before  him. 
The  king,  thinking  that  now  he  cannot  escape,  leisurely 
contemplates  the  prisoner,  and  is  greatly  struck  by  his 
appearance: 

“  There’s  beauty,  stranger!  woman-witching  beauty 
(Therefore  thou  art  in  Thebes)  in  thy  soft  form; 

Thy  fine  bright  hair,  not  coarse  like  the  hard  athletes. 

Is  mantling  o’er  thy  cheek  warm  with  desire; 

And  carefully  thou  hast  cherished  thy  white  skin; 

Not  in  the  sun’s  soft  beams,  but  in  cool  shade, 

Wfloing  soft  Aphrodite  with  thy  loveliness.” 

Then  follows  a  close  examination  of  the  fair-visaged 
sorcerer  about  his  race,  his  orgies,  and  his  purpose  in 
coming  to  Thebes,  and  at  the  end  of  it  he  is  sent  off  to 
the  “royal  stable,” — 

“  That  he  may  sit  in  midnight  gloom  profound: 

There  lead  thy  dance !  But  those  thou  hast  hither  led, 

Thy  guilt’s  accomplices,  we’ll  sell  for  slaves; 

Or,  silencing  their  noise  and  beating  drums, 

As  handmaids  to  the  distaff  set  them  down.” 

Bacchus  does  not  long  remain  in  the  dark  stable.  He 


THE  BACCHANALS. 


121 


appears,  **  a  god-confest”  to  his  worshippers,  who  are 
prostrate  on  the  ground,  alarmed  by  the  destruction  of 
the  palace  of  Pentheus.  They  ask  how  he  obtained  his 
freedom;  he  replies: 

“Myself,  myself  delivered— with  ease  and  effort  slight. 

Cho.  Thy  hands,  had  he  not  bound  them,  in  halters  strong  and 
tight? 

Bac.  ’Twas  even  then  I  mocked  him, he  thought  me  in  his  chain; 
He  touched  me  not,  nor  reached  me,  his  idle  thoughts  were  vain.” 

Unharmed,  unshackled,  he  again  stands  before  the  in¬ 
censed  king.  A  messenger  now  arrives — a  herdsman 
from  the  mountains — who  reports  that  the  Bacchanals 
have  broken  prison,  have  defied  all  attempts  to  recapture 
them,  are  again  engaged  in  their  revelries,  and  have 
ravaged  all  the  villages  and  herds  that  came  in  their  way 
from  the  plain  to  the  hill-country.  The  drama  now 
takes  a  new  turn.  Pentheus,  his  madness  fast  coming  on, 
admits  his  late  prisoner  into  his  counsels.  He  will  go 
and  witness  with  his  own  eyes  these  hateful  orgies:  he 
cannot  trust  his  officers  to  deal  with  them.  “These 
women,”  he  says,  “without  force  of  arms,  I’ll  bring 
them  in.  Give  me  mine  armor.”  Bacchus  offers  to  be 
his  guide,  but  tells  him  that  his  armor  will  betray  him 
to  the  women.  He  must  attire  himself  in  Bacchanalian 
costume : 

“  Pen.  Lead  on  and  swiftly.  Let  no  time  be  lost. 

Bac.  But  first  enwrap  thee  in  these  linen  robes. 

Ben.  What,  will  he  of  a  man  make  me  a  woman? 

Bac.  Lest  they  should  kill  thee,  seeing  thee  as  a  man.” 

Here  is  the  true  irony  of  tragedy.  Pentheus,  who  has 
derided  his  grandsire  and  the  holy  prophet  for  their 
unseemly  attire  and  senile  folly, — Pentheus,  who  has 
threatened  to  behead  the  Lydian  wizard,  and  had  im- 


123 


EURIPIDES. 


prisoned  bis  attendants,  is  himself  persuaded  by  the  god 
he  so  abhors  to  put  on  the  garb  of  a  Bacchanal,  and  in 
that  guise  to  pass  through  the  streets  of  Thebes.  His 
eagerness  to  behold  the  Bacchantes  makes  him  insensible 
to  the  indignity  of  the  situation.  He  asks — 

“  What  is  the  second  portion  of  my  dress? 

Bac.  Robes  to  thy  feet,  a  bonnet  on  thy  head; 

A  fawn-skin  and  a  thyrsus  in  thy  hand.” 

He  takes  for  his  guide  to  the  mountains  the  handsome 
stranger  whom  he  had  so  recently  ordered  to  sit  in  dark¬ 
ness  and  prepare  for  death:  he  is  even  obsequious  to 
him: 

“  So  let  us  on:  I  must  go  forth  in  arms, 

Or  follow  the  advice  thou  givest  me.” 

Bacchus  calls  to  his  train,  and  gives  his  instructions  to 
them  how  to  deal  with  their  prey  when  they  have  him 
in  the  toils: 

Women!  this  man  is  in  our  net;  he  goes 
To  find  his  just  doom  'mid  the  Bacchanals. 

Vengeance  is  ours.  Bereave  him  first  of  sense; 

Yet  be  his  phrenzy  slight.  In  his  right  mind 
He  never  had  put  on  a  woman’s  dress; 

But  now," thus  shaken  in  his  mind,  he’ll  wear  it. 

A  laughing-stock  I’ll  make  him  for  all  Thebes, 

Led  in  a  woman’s  dress  through  the  wide  city.” 

The  Chorus  respond  to  the  summons  of  their  divine 
leader  in  passionate  and  jubilant  strains,  and  anticipate 
the  doom  of  their  persecuting  foe : 

“  Slow  come,  but  come  at  length, 

In  their  majestic  strength. 

Faithful  and  true,  the  avenging  deities: 

And  chastening  human  folly 
And  the  mad  pride  unholy, 

Of  those  who  to  the  gods  bow  not  their  knees. 


THE  BACCHANALS. 


123 


For  hidden  still  and  mute, 

As  glides  their  printless  foot, 

Th’  impious  on  their  winding  path  they  hound, 

For  it  is  ill  to  know. 

Beyond  the  law’s  inexorable  bound.” 

Mania  now  seizes  on  Pentheus;  two  suns  lie  seem  to 
see :  a  double  Thebes :  his  guide  appears  to  him  a  horned 
bull:  lie  recognizes  among  the  Bacchic  revellers  Inohis 
kinswoman,  and  Agav£  his  mother. 

The  decorum  of  the  Greek  stage,  or  perhaps  its  im¬ 
perfect  means  for  representing  groups  and  rapid  action, 
precluded  poets  generally  from  bringing  before  an  audi¬ 
ence  the  catastrophe  of  tragic  dramas.  Accordingly,  we 
do  not  see,  but  are  told,  by  the  usual  messenger  on 
such  occasions,  of  the  miserable  end  of  the  proud  and 
impious  Theban  king.  When  Bacchus  and  his  victim 
have  climbed  one  of  the  spurs  of  Mount  Cithaeron,  they 
come 

“To  a  rock-walled  glen,  watered  by  a  streamlet. 

And  shadowed  o’er  with  pines:  theMoenads  there 
Sat,  all  their  hands  busy  with  pleasant  toil. 

And  some  the  leafy  thyrsus,  that  its  ivy 
Had  dropped  away,  were  garlanding  anew: 

Like  fillies  some,  unharnessed  from  the  yoke, 

Chanted  alternate  all  the  Bacchic  hymn.” 

. 

But  Pentheus  cannot,  from  the  level  on  which  he  has 
hulled,  see  the  whole  Bacchante  troop:  he  desires  to 
mount  on  a  bank  or  a  tall  tree,  in  order  that 

“  Clearly  he  may  behold  their  deeds  of  shame.” 

Then  says  the  messenger,— 

“  A  wonder  then  I  saw  that  stranger  do.” 

“He  bent  the  stem  of  a  tall  ash-tree,  and  dragged  it  to 
SftrUl  till  it  wa?  bept  Uk<?  a  bpw.  He  seated  Penthevw 


124 


EURIPIDES. 


on  a  bough,  and  then  let  it  rise  up  again  steadily  and 
gently,  so  that  my  master  should  not  fall  as  it  mounted. 
Raised  to  this  giddy  height,  ’tis  true,  he  saw  the  women, 
but  they  too  saw  him,  and  speedily  brought  him  down 
to  the  ground  on  which  they  were  standing.  But  be¬ 
fore  they  did  so,  the  stranger  had  vanished,  and  a  voice 
was  heard  from  the  heavens  proclaiming  in  clear  ringing 
tones: 

“Behold!  I  bring, 

O  maidens,  him  that  you  and  me,  our  rites, 

Our  orgies,  laughed  to  scorn.  Deal  now  with  him 
E’en  as  you  list,  and  take  a  fuU  revenge.” 

The  presence  of  the  god,  though  unseen,  was  an¬ 
nounced  by  a  column  of  bright  flame  reddening  the  sky, 
and  an  awful  silence  fell  on  Cithseron  and  its  dark  pine- 
groves.  A  second  shout  proclaimed  the  deity,  and  the 
daughters  of  Cadmus  sprang  to  their  feet  and  rushed 
forth  with  the  speed  of  doves  on  the  wing.  Down  the 
torrent’s  bed,  down  from  crag  to  crag  they  leaped — 
“mad  with  the  god.”  Agav&  led  on  her  kin,  and  at 
first  assailed  the  seat  of  Pentheus  with  idle  weapons: 

*  First  heavy  stones  they  hurled  at  him, 

Climbing  a  rock  in  front:  the  branches  of  the  ash 
Darted  at  some:  and  some,  like  javelins, 

Bent  their  sharp  thyrsi  shrilling  through  the  air, 

Pentheus  their  mark;  but  yet  they  struck  him  not, 

.  His  height  still  baffling  all  their  eager  wrath.” 

At  length  Agav£  cried  to  her  train,  “Tear  down  the 
tree,  and  then  we’ll  grasp  the  least ” — for  her  too  had  the 
god  made  blind — “that  rides  thereon.”  A  thousand 
hands  uprooted  the  tree,  and  Pentheus  fell  to  the 
ground,  well  knowing  that  his  end  was  near.  It  was 
his  mother’s  hand  that  seized  him  first.  In  vain,  dash- 
jpg  off  his  bonnet,  he  cried, 

“ ;  am  thy  chiia,  tbtee  own,  m  mother, ” 


THE  BACCHANALS . 


125 


She  knew  him  not,  and 

“  Caught  him  in  her  arms,  seized  his  right  hand, 

And,  with  her  feet  set  on  his  shrinking  side, 

Tore  out  the  shoulder.” 

“Ino,  Autonoe,  and  all  the  rest  dismembered  him;  one 
bore  away  an  arm,  one  a  still  sandalled  foot:  others  rent 
open  his  sides:  none  went  without  some  spoil  of  him 
whom,  possessed  by  Bacchus,  they  deemed  a  lion’s  cub. 
With  these  bloody  trophies  of  their  prey  they  are  now 
marching  to  Thebes:  for  my  part,  I  fled  at  the  sight  of 
this  dark  tragedy.” 

The  procession  of  the  Bacchantes  to  the  “  seven-gated 
city”  is  ushered  in  by  a  choral  song: 

“  Dance  and  sing 
In  Bacchic  ring; 

Shout,  shout  the  fate,  the  fate  of  gloom 
Of  Pentheus,  from  the  dragon  born; 

He  the  woman’s  garb  hath  worn, 

Following  the  bull,  the  harbinger  that  led  him  to  his  doom. 
O  ye  Theban  Bacchanals! 

Attune  ye  now  the  hymn  victorious, 

The  hymn  all-glorious, 

To  the  tear,  and  to  the  groan: 

O  game  of  glory ! 

To  bathe  the  hands  besprent  and  gory 
In  the  blood  of  her  own  son.” 

Believing  that  she  is  bringing  a  lion’s  head  to  affix  to 
he  walls  of  the  temple,  she  bears  in  her  arms  that  of 
Pentheus,  and  in  concert  with  the  Chorus  celebrates  in 
song  her  ghastly  triumph: 

“  Agavb.  O  ye  Asian  Bacchanals ! 

Chorus.  Who  is  she  on  us  who  calls? 

Agavd.  From  the  mountains  lo !  we  bear 
To  the  palace  gate 
Qur  new-slain  quarry  fair, 


128 


EURIPIDES. 


Chorus.  I  see,  I  see,  and  on  thy  joy  I  wait. 

Agavb.  Without  a  net,  without  a  snare, 

The  lion’s  cub,  I  took  him  there.” 

But  Cadmus  soon  undeceives  her.  He  has  been  to  Ci- 
thaeron  to  collect  the  remains  of  his  grandson  which  the 
Bacchanals  had  left  behind;  and  AgavS,  restored  to  her 
senses,  discerns  in  her  gory  burden  the  head  of  Pen* 
theusherson.  At  the  close  of  this  fearful  story  Bac¬ 
chus  appears  and  informs  Cadmus  of  his  doom: 

‘‘Thou,  father  of  this  earth-born  race, 

A  dragon  shalt  become ;  thy  wife  shall  take 
A  brutish  form  at  last.” 

However,  after  cycles  of  time  have  gone  by,  Cadmus 
and  his  wife  Harmonia  shall  resume  their  human 
forms,  and  be  borne  by  Mars  to  the  Isles  of  the  Blest. 

That  a  tragedy  in  some  respects  so  un-Hellenic  and  so 
Oriental  in  its  character  should  have  been  well  known 
and  highly  estimated  in  the  East,  is  not  to  be  wondered 
at.  Perhaps  not  the  least  memorable  application  of 
“The  Bacchanals”  to  new  circumstances  is  that  men¬ 
tioned  by  Plutarch  in  his  “Life  of  Crass  us.”  Great 
joy  was  there  in  the  camp  of  Sureuas,  the  Parthian 
general,  one  summer  evening,  for  Crassus  the  Roman 
proconsul  and  the  greater  part  of  his  army  had  been 
slain  or  taken  prisoners,  and  the  residue  of  the  broken 
legions  was  hurrying  back  to  the  western  bank  of  the 
Euphrates.  Crassus  himself  lay  a  headless  corpse.  To 
gratify  his  victorious  soldiers,  Sureuas  exhibited  a  bur¬ 
lesque  of  a  Roman  triumph.  Himself  and  his  staff 
feasted  in  the  commander’s  tent.  To  the  door  of  the 
banqueting-hall  the  head  of  the  Roman  general  was 
borne  by  a  Greek  actor  from  Tralles,  who  introduced  it 
with  some  appropriate  verses  from  “The  Bacchanals” 
Of  Euripides.  The  bloody  trophy  was  thrown  at  the 


ION.  127 

feet  of  Surenas  and  his  guests,  and  the  player,  seizing 
it  in  his  hands,  enacted  the  last  scene — the  frenzy  of 
Agavd  and  the  mutilation  of  Pentheus. 

CHAPTER  VII. 

ION.  — HIPPOLYTUS. 

**  *  Sweet  is  the  holiness  of  youth  ’—so  felt 
Time-honored  Chaucer,  when  he  framed  that  lay 
By  which  the  Prioress  beguiled  the  way, 

And  many  a  Pilgrim’s  rugged  heart  did  melt.” 

—Wordsworth. 

So  long  as  the  Athenians  were  a  second-rate  power  in 
Greece  they  were  content  with  a  military  adventurer  for 
the  founder  of  the  Ionian  race.  In  a  war  between 
Athens  and  Euboea,  one  Xuthus  had  done  them  good 
service;  his  recompense  for  it  was  the  hand  of  the 
Erectheid  princess  Creusa,  and  the  issue  of  the  marriage 
was  Ion,  from  whom  the  Athenians  claimed,  remotely, 
to  descend.  But  when,  after  the  decline  of  Argos,  they 
had  risen  to  a  level  with  Corinth  and  Sparta,  they 
aspired  to  the  honor  of  a  divine  ancestry  on  the  spear- 
side,  as  well  as  that  of  a  royal  one  on  the  spindle.  A 
wandering  soldier  no  longer  sufficed:  the  son  of  Creusa 
must  not  be  born  in  mortal  wedlock,  but  derive  his 
origin  from  a  god.  And  what  deit}r — in  this  matter  the 
virgin  Pallas  Athene  was  out  of  the  question — was  so 
fitted  by  liis  various  gifts  to  be  the  forefather  of  so 
accomplished  a  people  as  the  patron  of  music,  poetry, 
medicine,  and  prophecy?  To  set  before  his  fellow- 
citizens,  as  well  as  the  strangers  and  allies  who  sat  in 
the  Dionysiac  theatre,  the  pedigree  of  tl.e  Ionians,  and 
consequently  of  the  Athenians  also,  Euripides  probably 
composed  his  “  Ion.” 


128 


EURIPIDES. 


Creusa  is  the  daughter  of  Erectheus,  an  old  autoch- 
thonic  king  of  Athens.  She  has  borne  a  son  to  Apollo, 
but  through  fear  of  her  parents  was  compelled  to  leave 
him,  immediately  after  his  birth,  in  a  cave  under  the 
Acropolis.  The  divine  father,  however,  does  not  aban¬ 
don  the  infant,  but  employs  Mercury  to  transport  him 
to  Delphi,  and  to  deposit  him  on  the  steps  of  the  temple, 
where  he  knows  the  babe  will  be  cared  for.  One  of  the 
vestals — apparently  even  then  middle-aged,  since  she  is 
old  in  the  play — finds  Ion,  and  fulfils  his  sire’s  expecta¬ 
tions.  She  has,  indeed,  her  own  thoughts  on  the  matter, 
but  keeps  them  to  herself  until  a  convenient  season 
comes  for  disclosing  them.  In  the  Delphian  temple  the 
foundling  receives  an  education  resembling  that  of  the 
infant  Samuel.  He  thus  describes  his  functions: 

“  My  task,  which  from  my  early  infancy 
Hath  been  my  charge,  is  with  these  laurel  boughs 
And  sacred  wreaths  to  cleanse  the  vestibule 
Of  Phoebus,  on  the  pavements  moistening  dews 
To  rain,  and  with  my  bow  to  chase  the  birds 
Which  would  defile  the  hallowed  ornaments. 

A  mother’s  fondness  and  a  father’s  care 
I  never  knew;  the  temple  of  the  god 
Claims  then  my  service,  for  it  nurtured  me.” 

He  receives  the  strangers  who  come  to  consult  the 
oracle  or  to  see  the  wonders  of  the  shrine,  and  shows 
himself,  by  turns,  an  expert  ritualist  or  a  polite  cicerone. 
Centuries  later,  Ion  would  have  had  his  place  among 
the  youthful  ascetics  who,  by  the  beauty  of  their  lives, 
and  sometimes  of  their  persons  also,  adorned  the  church’ 
and  edified  or  rebuked  the  world.  But  this  early  Basil 
or  Gregory  of  Delphi  had  other  work  destined  for  him 
than  serving  at  the  altar  or  waiting  on  pilgrims.  He 
will  have  to  go  out  of  “religion”  into  the  haunts  of 


ION. 


129 


men:  the  privilege  of  celibacy  is  denied  him;  his  ephod 
he  must  exchange  for  a  breastplate,  his  laurel  wreath 
for  a  plumed  helmet.  The  name  of  Ion  is  due  to  an 
illustrious  race. 

Of  all  extant  Greek  dramas,  this  beautiful  one,  though 
easy  for  readers  to  understand,  is  the  most  complex  in 
its  action,  and  possibly  may  have  kept  the  original  spec¬ 
tators  of  it,  in  spite  of  the  information  given  by  Mercury 
in  the  prologue,  in  suspense  up  to  its  very  last  scene. 
In  fact,  the  principal  characters  are  all  at  cross-purposes. 
Creusa  has  come  to  Delphi  on  the  pretext  that  a  friend 
of  hers  is  anxious  to  learn  what  has  become  of  a  son 
whom  she  has  borne  to  Apollo — her  own  story  trans¬ 
ferred  to  another.  Her  husband  Xuthus  is  there  to  ask 
advice  from  the  neighboring  oracle  of  Trophonius  by 
what  means  Creusa  and  himself  may  cease  to  be  child¬ 
less.  While  he  goes  on  his  errand,  his  wife  encounters 
Ion  in  the  fore-court  of  the  temple,  and  their  conversa¬ 
tion  begins  with  the  following  words: 

“  Ion.  Lady,  whoe’er  thou  art,  that  liberal  air 
Speaks  an  exalted  mind:  there  is  a  grace, 

A  dignity  in  those  of  noble  birth, 

That  marks  their  high  rank.  Yet  I  marvel  much 
That  from  thy  closed  lids  the  trickling  tear 
Watered  thy  beauteous  cheeks,  soon  as  thine  eye 
Beheld  this  chaste  oracular  seat  of  Phoebus. 

What  brings  this  sorrow,  lady?  All  besides, 

Viewing  the  temple  of  the  god,  are  struck 
With  joy;  thy  melting  eye  o’erflows  with  tears. 

Creusa.  Not  without  reason,  stranger,  art  thou  seized 
With  wonder  at  my  tears ;  this  sacred  dome 
Wakens  the  sad  remembrance  of  things  past.” 

In  a  long  dialogue  she  communicates  to  her  unknown 
son  part  of  her  own  story,  and  by  casting  some  reflec¬ 
tions  on  the  god  for  his  conduct  to  her  supposed  friend, 


lao 


EURIPIDES . 


incurs  a  rebuke  from  the  fair  young  acolyte.  The 
Chorus  remarks  that  mankind  are  very  unlucky — they 
rarely  get  what  they  wish  for : 

“  One  single  blessing 

By  any  one  through  life  is  scarcely  found.” 

And  Creusa,  not  at  all  abashed  by  Ion’s  remonstrance, 
proceeds  to  complain  of  Apollo’s  conduct  towards  her¬ 
self  and  their  son. 

Xutlius  now  returns  from  the  Trophonian  crypt  with 
good  news  for  his  wife  and  himself.  Trophouius,  in¬ 
deed,  being  a  very  subordinate  deity,  “held  it  unmeet  to 
forestall  the  answer  of  a  superior  one;”  “  but,”  says 
Xuthus, — 

“  One  thing  he  told  me, 

That  childless  I  should  not  return,  nor  thou, 

Home  from  the  oracle;” 

and  then  goes  into  the  adytum  to  learn  his  fortune. 

Ion  again  expresses  his  surprise  at  the  strange  lady’s 
shrewish,  and  indeed  as  he  thinks  it,  rather  impious, 
language;  but  says,  “  What  is  the  daughter  of  Erec- 
tlieus  to  me?  let  me  to  my  task.”  He  admits,  however 
(infected  apparently  by  Creusa’s  boldness),  that  his 
patron  has  acted  unhandsomely  to  some  virgin  or 
other : 

“  Becoming  thus 

By  stealth  a  father,  leaving  then  his  children 
To  die,  regardless  of  them.” 

Xuthus  reappears,  with  this  command  from  the 
Pythoness:  “The  first  male  stranger  whom  you  meet, 
address  as  your  son.”  Of  course  the  stranger  is  Ion; 
but  being  greeted  with  the  words,  “Health  to  my  son!” 
by  one  whom  he  has  never  before  set  eyes  on.  he  is  far 
more  offended  than  pleased  by  this  unlooked-for  salu- 


ioy. 


131 


tation;  and,  not  at 'all  unreasonably,  all  tilings  con¬ 
sidered,  be  recoils,  when  Xuthus  proceeds  to  embrace 
him,  and  asks— 

“  Art  thou,  stranger, 

Well  in  thy  wits;  or  hath  the  god  s  displeasure 

Bereft  thee  of  thy  reason?” 

He,  a  minister  of  the  temple,  objects  to  being  thus 
claimed  as  so  near  of  kin  by  a  man  whose  business 
there  be  has  yet  to  learn:  he  says,  “ Hands  off,  friend — 
they’ll  mar  the  garlands  of  the  god;”  and  adds,  “If 
you  keep  not  your  distance,  you  shall  have  my  arrow 
iu  your  heart:” 

“  I  am  not  fond  of  curing  wayward  strangers 
And  mad  men,” 

“If  you  kill  me,”  replies  Xuthus,  “you  will  kill  your 
father.”  “You  my  father!”  cries  Ion;  “how  so?  It 
makes  me  laugh  to  hear  you.”  A  strict  examination  of 
the  father  by  the  son  ensues;  and  at  last,  neither  of  the 
disputants  being  very  critical,  and  both  very  devout, 
the  sudden  relationship  is  accepted  with  full  faith  by 
both,  and  they  tenderly  embrace  each  other.  Xuthus 
then  imparts  to  Ion  his  purpose  of  taking  him  to  Athens, 
but  of  concealing  their  position  for  a  while.  His  wife, 
he  argues,  may  not  be  greatly  pleased  at  being  so  sud¬ 
denly  provided  with  a  ready-made  son  and  heir.  She 
comes  of  a  royal  house,  and  so  is  particular  on  the 
score  of  “blue  blood.”  The  youngster,  if  adopted,  will 
inherit  her  property.  The  discovery  of  him  may  be  all 
very  well  for  her  husband,  who,  having  once  been  a 
wanderer,  may,  for  all  she  knows,  have  a  son  in  many 
towns,  Greek  or  barbaric.  But  bow  will  this  treasure- 
trove  remove  from  herself  the  reproach  of  barrenness? 
There  is,  too,  such  a  thing  as  ^re-nuptial  as  well  as  pout- 


138 


EURIPIDES. 


nuptial  jealousy;  and  though  so  comely,  gracious,  and 
religious  a  youth  cannot  fail,  after  a  time,  to  ingratiate 
himself  even  with  a  step-mother,  there  may  be  much 
domestic  controversy  before  so  desirable  a  consumma¬ 
tion  is  possible.  Xuthus  then  informs  Ion  that  he  in¬ 
tends  to  celebrate  this  joyful  event  by  a  sacrifice  to 
Apollo,  and  by  a  general  feast  to  the  Delphians: 

“  At  my  table 

Will  I  receive  thee  as  a  welcome  guest, 

And  cheer  thee  with  the  banquet,  then  conduct  thee 
To  Athens  with  me  as  a  visitant.” 

On  leaving  the  stage  he  tells  the  Chorus,  who,  of 
course,  have  heard  the  real  story,  to  keep  what  they 
know  to  themselves.  If  they  let  his  wife  into  the  secret 
they  shall  surely  die;  and,  inasmuch  as  they  are  Athe¬ 
nian  women,  Xuthus  has  the  right  to  threaten,  as  w^ell 
as  the  means  to  keep  his  promise.  For  one  who  has 
seen  so  much  of  the  world,  it  argues  much  simplicity 
in  Xuthus  to  have  imagined  that  even  the  fear  of 
death  will  insure  silence  in  some  people.  Creusa  is 
very  soon  made  aware  by  her  female  attendants  of  her 
husband’s  scheme  for  deceiving  her,  and  she  behaves 
exactly  as  he  had  foreseen  she  would.  She  re-enters,  ac¬ 
companied  by  an  aged  servant  of  her  house:  when  the 
Chorus  enlighten  her  on  every  point  except  one— the 
name  of  Ion’s  mother;  and  “the  venerable  man”  is  ex¬ 
actly  the  instrument  needed  by  an  indignant  woman,  for 

“  It  is  the  curse  of  kings  to  be  attended 
By  slaves  that  take  their  humors  for  a  warrant 
To  break  within  the  bloody  house  of  life.”  * 

“We,”  says  the  prompter  of  evil,  “by  thy  husband  are 


*  “  ging  John,”  act  iv,  sc,  2, 


133 


ION. 

betrayed.”  This  comes  of  unequal  marriages.  Of  him 
•we  know  as  little  as  of  his  new-found  bantling: 

“  Xuthus 

Came  to  the  city  and  thy  royal  house, 

And  wedded  thee,  all  thy  inheritance 
Receiving.  By  some  other  woman  now 
Discovered  to  have  children  privately — 

How  privately  I’ll  tell  thee— when  he  saw 
Thou  hadst  no  child,  it  pleased  him  not  to  bear 
A  fate  like  thine;  but  by  some  favorite  slave, 

His  paramour  by  stealth,  he  hath  a  son. 

Him  to  some  Delphian  gave  he,  distant  far, 

To  educate,  who,  to  this  sacred  house 
Consigned,  as  secret  here,  received  his  nurture. 

He,  knowing  this,  and  that  his  son  advanced 
To  manhood  was,  urged  thee  to  come  hither, 

Pleading  thy  barrenness.  ’Twas  not  the  god, 

But  Xuthus,  who  deceived  thee,  and  long  since 
Devised  this  wily  plan  to  rear  his  son. 

Failing,  he  could  on  Phoebus  fix  the  blame, 

Succeeding,  would  adroitly  choose  the  time 
To  make  him  ruler  of  thy  rightful  land.” 

The  servant — loyal  to  his  mistress  as  Evan  dhu 
Maccombich  was  to  Fergus  Maclvor,  equally  ready 
to  die  for  her,  or  to  do  murder  to  avenge  her  imagined 
wrongs — devises  a  plot  that  would  have  been  quite 
successful  had  not  Apollo  been  on  the  watch.  Creusa 
is  in  possession  of  a  deadly  poison — “  two  drops  of 
blood  that  from  the  Gorgon  fell  ” — given  to  her  father 
Erectheus  by  Pallas.  One  heals  disease,  the  other 
works  certain  and  swift  death.  The  princess  proposes 
to  poison  her  stepson  when  he  is  beneath  her  roof. 
“  I  like  not  that,”  says  the  servant.  “  There  you  will 
be  the  first  to  be  suspected ;  a  stepdame’s  hate  is  pro¬ 
verbial.”  To  this  Creusa  agrees, .and,  anticipating  the 
old  vassal’s  thought,  she  herself  describes  the  mode  of 
destroying  the  sop  of  Xuthus: 


134 


EURIPIDES, 


“  This  shalt  thou  do:  this  little  golden  casket 
TaKe  from  my  hand.  Bear  it  beneath  thy  vest. 

Then,  supper  ended,  when  they  ’gin  to  pour 
Libations  to  the  gods,  do  thou  infuse 
The  drop  in  the  youth’s  goblet.  Take  good  heed 
That  none  observe  thee.  Drug  his  cup  alone 
Who  thinks  to  lord  it  o’er  my  house.  If  once 
It  pass  his  lips,  his  foot  shall  never  reach 
Athens’  fair  city;  death  awaits  him  here.” 

After  a  choral  ode  has  been  sung,  a  breathless 
attendant  rushes  in  and  demands  where  Creusa  is. 
The  plot  has  failed;  the  old  man  has  been  arrested; 
he  has  confessed  the  deed;  and  the  rulers  of  Delphi 
are  in  hot  pursuit  of  his  accomplice  that  she  may  die 
overwhelmed  with  stones.  “How  were  our  dark 
devices  brought  to  light?”  the  Chorus  inquires.  Then, 
as  usual  on  the  Greek  stage,  and  also  in  the  French 
classical  drama,  a  long  narrative  instructs  the  spectators 
of  what  has  taken  place.  Up  to  a  certain  point  all  went 
well.  Ion’s  chalice  was  drugged  furtively.  The 
destined  victim  poured  his  libation,  and  was  just  about 
to  drink,  when  some  one  chanced  to  utter  a  word  of  ill 
omen,  and  so  Ion  poured  his  wine  on  the  floor,  and 
bade  the  other  guests  do  the  like.  The  cups  are  now 
replenished ;  but  in  the  pause  that  ensued  between  the 
first  and  second  filling  of  them,  a  troop  of  doves,  such 
as  haunt  the  dome  of  the  temple,  came  fluttering  in, 
and  drank  from  the  wine-pools  on  the  ground.  The 
spilt  wine  was  harmless  to  all  save  one.  That  one 
drank  of  the  deadly  draught  poured  out  by  Ion: 

“  Straight,  convulsive  shiverings  seized 
Her  beauteous  plumes,  around  in  giddy  rings 
She  whirled,  and  in  a  strange  and  mournful  note 
Seemed  to  lament:  amazement  seized  the  guests, 

Seeing  the  poor  bird’s  pangs:  her  breast  heaved  thick, 
And,  stretching  out  her  scarlet  legs,  she  died," 


ION 


135 


Creusa  now  hurries  in:  she  has  been  doomed  to  death 
by  the  Pythian  Council,  and  her  executioner  is  to  be 
Ion  himself;  she  clasps  the  altar  of  Apollo,  but  that 
sanctuary  will  not  avail  her,  for  has  she  not  attempted 
the  life  of  one  of  the  god’s  ministers?  In  reply  to  her 
appeals  for  life,  Ion  says: 

“  The  good, 

Oppressed  by  wrongs,  should  at  those  hallowed  seats 

Find  refuge:  ill  becomes  it  that  th’  unjust 

And  just  alike  should  seek  protection  there.” 

But  now  the  old  prophetess,  who  had  years  before 
preserved  the  infant  Ion,  having  learnt  that  he  is  soon 
to  leave  the  Delphian  shrine,  produces  the  swaddling- 
clothes,  the  ornaments,  and  the  basket,  in  which  his 
mother  had  clad  and  laid  him  in  the  cave  under  the 
Acropolis.  They  may  help  him,  she  thinks,  some  day, 
to  discover  the  secret  of  his  birth.  While  her  son  is 
examining  these  tokens,  Creusa  sees  them  too,  and 
claims  them  as  the  work  of  her  own  hands.  As  Ion 
unfolds,  one  by  one,  the  tiny  robes,  she  names,  without 
first  seeing  them,  the  subjects  which  were  embroidered 
on  each  of  them.  The  recognition  is  complete.  Creusa 
embraces  her  long-lost  son,  and  now  hesitates  not  to  ack¬ 
nowledge  that  Apollo  is  his  father.  If  any  doubt  re¬ 
mained  even  onthe  part  of  Xuthus,  who  indeed  is  not  an 
eyewitness  of  the  discovery,  it  is  dispersed  by  the  speech 
of  Minerva.  She  explains  the  reasons  for  concealment 
hitherto,  and  the  cause  for  disclosure  now :  bids  Creusa 
take  her  son  to  the  land  of  Cecrops,  and  there  seat  him 
on  the  throne  of  his  grandsire  Erectlieus.  She  con¬ 
cludes  with  a  prediction  of  the  fortunes  of  the  Ionian 
race,  and  of  the  Dorians,  who  are  to  descend  from 
Dorus,  a  sou  she  is  to  bear  to  Xuthus.  And  thus  Apollo 
is  absolved  from  wrong,  and  Creusa  rejoices  in  the 


136 


EURIPIDES. 


prospect  of  becoming  tlie  mother  of  two  Greek  nations, 
and  these  the  rival  leaders  of  the  Hellenic  world. 

Should  this  exquisitely  beautiful  play  be  ranked 
among  tragedies  or  comedies?  Neither  title  exactly 
suits  it.  Rather  is  it  a  melodrama.  And  but  for  a 
few  ceremonies  inherent  in  or  necessary  to  the  Greek 
stage,  might  it  not  be  almost  accounted  the  work  of  a 
modern  poet?  The  complexity  of  the  fable,  the  rapid 
transitions  in  the  action,  the  picturesque  beauty  of  the 
scenes,  and  the  domestic  nature  of  the  emotions  it  excites, 
have  a  far  less  classic  than  romantic  stamp.  For  the 
loug  speech  of  the  attendant  who  describes  the  manner 
in  which  the  plot  against  the  life  of  the  hero  is  baffled, 
substitute  a  representation  on  the  stage  of  the  banquet- 
cancel  the  prologue  spoken  by  Mercury,  and  the  wind¬ 
ing-up  scene  in  which  Minerva  appears — and  then,  even 
without  omitting  the  Chorus,  there  will  remain  a  mixed 
drama  which  neither  Calderon  nor  Shakespeare  might 
have  disdained  to  own.  Perhaps  the  modern  air  that 
we  attribute  to  it  may  have  been  among  the  reasons  for 
the  comparative  neglect  of  the  “  Ion”  by  the  ancient 
critics — nay  even,  it  might  seem,  by  those  who  wit¬ 
nessed  the  performance  of  it.  But  neither  the  date  of 
its  production  nor  the  trilogy  of  which  it  formed  a  part 
is  known.  It  may  be,  as  regards  “its  general  composi¬ 
tion,  more  pleasing  than  powerful.”  We  agree,  how¬ 
ever,  entirely  with  Mr.  Paley,  when  he  says:  “none  of 
his  plays  so  clearly  show  the  fine  mind  of  Euripides,  or 
impress  us  with  a  more  favorable  idea  of  his  virtuous 
and  human  character.” 

HIPPOLYTUS. 

The  play  which  has  just  been  surveyed  is  of  a  reli¬ 
gious  character,  and  the  “Hippolytus”  is  coupled  with 


HIPPOLYTUS. 


137 


it,  because,  although  dealing  with  human  passion  far 
more  than  the  “Ion,”  the  principal  character  in  it  is 
also  that  of  a  devotee.  However  philosophical  or  skep¬ 
tical  Euripides  may  have  been  in  his  theological 
opinions,  no  one  of  the  Greek  dramatic  poets  surpassed 
him  in  the  delineation  of  piety  and  reverence  for  the 
gods;  and  he  seems  to  have  delighted  especially  in  por¬ 
traying  the  effect  of  such  feelings  upon  pure  and  youth¬ 
ful  minds.  If,  indeed,  fear  rather  than  love  of  the 
gods  be  essential  to  devotion,  then  iEschylus  must  be 
accounted  a  far  more  pious  writer  than  Euripides.  The 
Calvinists  of  criticism  will  naturally  prefer  gloom  and 
terror,  inexorable  Fates  and  all-powerful  Furies,  to  the 
humane,  benign,  and  rational  sentiments  which  consist 
with  the  attributes  of  mercy  and  justice.  We  neither 
expect  nor  desire  to  reconcile  these  opposite  factions 
further  than  may  be  necessary  for  a  statement  of  the 
claims  of  the  younger  poet  to  a  fair  hearing. 

“Ion”  and  “Ilippolytus”  are  each  of  them  examples 
of  youthful  virtue:  the  latter  has,  or  at  least  displays, 
the  more  enthusiastic  temperament,  which,  however,  is 
drawn  out  from  him  by  the  greater  severity  of  his  lot. 
Yet  we  can  easily  conceive  the  votary  of  the  chaste 
Diana  passing  through  life  quite  as  contentedly  in  her 
service  as  Ion  would  have  passed  his  days  as  a  minister 
of  Apollo.  It  was  the  hard  destiny  of  the  son  of  The¬ 
seus  to  have  incurred  the  heavy  displeasure  of  one  god¬ 
dess  through  his  earnest  devotion  to  another.  The  life- 
battle  he  has  to  fight  is  indeed  really  a  contest  between 
two  rival  divinities;  and  were  second  titles  possible  in 
Greek  plays,  this  affecting  and  noble  tragedy  might  be 
entitled  “Hippolytus,  or  the  Contest  between  Venus 
and  Diana.” 

t  *  i  * 

As  the  plot  of  the  “Hippolytus”  is,  through  the  \ 


138 


EURIPIDES. 


“Phedre”  of  Racine,  probably  better  known  to  English 
readers  than  the  more  complicated  fable  of  the  “Ion," 
it  may  be  sufficient  to  state  it  briefly,  and  to  direct  at¬ 
tention  rather  to  the  characters  than  the  story.  The 
hero  is  the  son  of  Theseus,  king  of  Athens,  by  the 
Amazonian  Hippolyta,  whom  Shakespeare  has  sketched 
in  his  “  Midsummer  Night’s  Dream.”  His  boyish  years 
have  been  passed  at  Troezen  with  his  grandfather,  the 
pure-minded  Pittlieus.  While  under  his  roof,  Hippoly- 
tus  devotes  himself  to  the  worship  of  Diana:  like  her 
he  delights  in  the  chase;  like  her  also  he  shuns  the 
snares  of  love  or  the  chains  of  wedlock.  Excelling  in 
all  manly  exercises,  and  adorned  with  every  virtue,  he 
unhappily  not  merely  neglects  Venus,  but  irritates  her 
by  open  expressions  of  contempt  for  herself  and  her 
rites:  and  he  owes  to  this  pride  or  exclusive  zeal  the 
hideous  ruin  which  engulfs  him.  The  offended  god¬ 
dess  sets  forth  in  the  prologue  her  determination  to  de¬ 
stroy  Diana’s  favorite,  and  gives  her  reasons  for  it.  She 
says: 

“  Those  that  reverence  my  powers  I  favor, 

But  I  confound  all  who  think  scorn  of  me. 

For  even  divinity  is  fashioned  thus— 

It  joys  in  mortal  honors.” 

“He  may  consort  with  the  huntress,  he  may  follow  his 
swift  dogs,  he  may  shun  fellowship  with  men,  as  much 
as  he  likes — of  his  tastes  I  reck  not:  what  I  cannot 
overlook  is  his  personally  offensive  conduct  to  myself, 
‘a  goddess  not  inglorious,’  and  accounted  by  mortals 
generally  as  not  the  least  potent  of  Olympians.”  The 
means  of  revenge  are  not  far  to  seek.  Phaedra,  his 
young  and  beauteous  stepmother,  is  pining  for  love  of 
him,  and  through  her  unhappy  passion  he  shall  be 


siPPoifTirs. 


189 

Struck:  “with  lier  I  have  no  quarrel,”  says  the  god¬ 
dess — 

“Yet  let  her  perish: 

I  have  not  for  her  life  that  tenderness 
As  hot  to  wreak  just  vengeance  on  my  foes.” 

The  prologue  ended,  Venus  disappears,  and  Hippoly- 
tus  and  his  retinue  of  huntsmen  enter,  singing  a  hymn 
to  Diana.  When  it  is  finished,  he  thus  addresses  the 
goddess — an  invocation  which  lias  been  thus  beautifully 
paraphrased: 

“  Thou  maid  of  maids,  Diana,  the  goddess  whom  he  fears, 

Unto  thee  Hippolytus  this  flowery  chaplet  bears; 

From  meadows  where  no  shepherd  his  flock  a-field  e’er  drove, 
From  where  no  woodman’s  hatchet  hath  woke  the  echoing  grove, 
Where  o’er  the  unshorn  meadow  the  wild  bee  passes  free, 

Where  by  her  river-haunts  dwells  virgin  Modesty; 

Where  he  who  knoweth  nothing  of  the  wisdom  of  the  schools 
Beareth  in  a  virgin  heart  the  fairest  of  all  rules; 

To  him  ’tis  given  all  freely  to  cull  those  self-sown  flowers, 

But  evil  men  must  touch  not  pure  Nature’s  sacred  bowers. 

This  to  his  virgin  mistress  a  virgin  hand  doth  bear — 

A  wreath  of  unsoiled  flowers  to  deck  her  golden  hair. 

For  such  alone  of  mortals  can  unto  her  draw  nigh, 

And  with  that  guardian  Goddess  hold  solemn  converse  high. 

He  ever  hears  the  voice  of  his  own  virgin  Queen, 

He  hears  what  others  hear  not,  and  sees  her  though  unseen; 

He  holds  his  virgin  purpose  in  freedom  unbeguiled, 

To  age  and  death  advancing  in  innocence  a  child.”  * 

—(Isaac  Williams.) 

Hippolytus  is  warned  by  bis  henchman  that  he  is  in¬ 
curring  danger  by  his  total  neglect  of  Venus;  but  he 
replies  only  by  a  rather  contumelious  remark  that  “I 
salute  her  from  afar;”  “some  with  this  god  and  some 
with  that  have  dealings;”  and  then  the  master  and 

*  With  this  exception,  all  the  translated  passages  in  this  chap¬ 
ter  are  taken  from  Mr.  Maurice  Purcell  Fitzgerald’s  admirable 
version  of  i4Thd  Crowned  Hippolytus.” 


146 


EtfnlPlMS. 


liis  men  depart  to  a  banquet.  We  pass  onward  to 
Pheedra’s  entrance,  which  is  announced  by  her  ancient 
nurse,  much  such  an  accommodating  personage  as  the 
nurse  in  “Romeo  and  Juliet,”  although  far  more  mis¬ 
chievous.  She  describes  the  strange  malady  of  her 
mistress,  and  her  own  weary  watching  by  the  sufferer’s 
couch.  Plisedra  breaks  out  into  frenzied  song*. 

“  Lift  up  my  body, 

Straighten  my  head, 

Hold  up  the  hands 
And  arms  of  the  dead ; 

The  joints  of  my  limbs  are  loosened, 

The  veil  on  my  brow  is  like  lead. 

Take  it  off,  take  it  off,  let  the  clustering  curls 
On  my  shoulders  be  spread.” 

She  pants  for  cooling  streams  and  the  whispering  sound 
of  shadowing  poplars,  and  longs  to  stretch  her  limbs 
in  repose  on  the  verdurous  meadow.  Next  comes  an 
access  of  fever,  and  she  breaks  forth  into  wilder  strains: 

“  Send  me,  send  me  to  the  mountain:  I  will  wander  to  the  wood, 
Where  the  dogs  amid  the  pine-copse  track  and  tear  the  wild 
beast's  brood ; 

I  will  hang  upon  his  traces  where  the  dappled  roebuck  bounds: 

I  yearn,  by  all  the  gods,  I  yearn  to  halloo  to  the  hounds, 

To  poise  the  lance  of  Thessaly  above  my  yellow  hair, 

And  to  loose  my  hand  and  lightly  launch  the  barbed  point  through 
ain” 

After  more  wild  song  and  as  wild  speeches  to  the 
nurse,  her  secret  is  at  length  drawn  from  her;  and  that 
faithful  but  unscrupulous  attendant  reveals  it,  under  an 
oath  of  secrecy,  to  Hippolytus.  Diana’s  worshipper, 
shocked  at  the  disclosure,  discourses  on  the  profligacy 
of  women  in  general,  and  determines  to  absent  himself 
for  a  while  until  Theseus  returns  to  Troezen,  with  the 
intention;  as  Phlgdra  and  her  nurse  believe>  of  disclosing 


HIPPOLYTUS. 


141 


to  his  father  his  wife’s  infidelity.  Overwhelmed  by 
shame  and  despair,  Phaedra  hangs  herself,  but  suspends 
from  her  neck  a  letter  in  which  she  accuses  Hippolytus 
of  making  dishonorable  proposals  to  her.  Theseus,  on 
his  return  from  an  oracle  he  had  been  consulting,  finds 
liis  wife  a  lifeless  corpse,  and  believes  in  liis  son’s  guilt. 
Him  he  curses  as  a  base  hypocrite,  who,  affecting  to 
worship  the  chaste  goddess,  has  attempted  to  commit  a 
crime  that  even  Venus  would  scarcely  sanction.  His 
supposed  father,  Neptune,  in  an  evil  moment,  had  once 
given  Theseus  three  fatal  curses,  one  of  which  he  now 
hurls  at  his  innocent  son.  Hippolytus  now  turns  his 
back  forever  on  his  father’s  house:  weeping,  and  attended 
by  his  weeping  friends,  he  drives  slowly  and  sadly  along 
the  sea-beach.  The  curse  comes  upon  him  in  the  form 
of  a  monster  sent  by  Neptune.  A  messenger  brings  the 
tidings  to  Theseus.  “There  came,”  he  says,  “when  we 
had  passed  the  frontier  of  this  realm  of  Troezen, 

A  sound,  as  if  some  bolt  from  Zeus 
Made  thunder  from  the  bowels  of  the  earth— 

A  heavy,  hollow  boom,  hideous  to  hear. 

A  sudden  fear  fell  on  our  youthful  hearts 
Whence  came  this  awful  voice:  till  with  fixed  gaze 
Watching  the  sea-beat  ridges,  we  beheld 
A  mighty  billow  lifted  to  the  skies; 

And  with  the  billow,  at  the  third  great  sweep 
Of  mountain  surge,  the  sea  gave  up  a  bull, 

Monster  of  aspect  fierce,  whose  bellowings 
Filled  all  the  earth,  that  echoed  back  the  roar 
In  tones  that  made  us  shudder. 

The  terrified  horses  become  unmanageable;  and  though 

**  Qur  lord,  in  all  their  ways  long  conversant, 

Grasped  at  their  reins,  and,  throwing  back  his  weight, 
Pulled  hard,  as  pulls  a  sailor  at  the  oar; 

They,  with  set  jaws  gripping  the  tempered  bits, 

Whirl  alonjj,  heedless  bf  the  master’s  hand,”— 


142 


EURIPIDES. 


until  Hippolytus  is  dragged  and  dashed  against  the 
rocks,  and  lies  a  broken  and  bleeding  body,  from  which 
the  spirit  is  rapidly  fleeting.  He  is  borne  into  his  father’s 
presence,  torn,  mangled,  and  bleeding,  to  die.  But  The¬ 
seus,  still  crediting  Phaedra’s  false  letter,  rejoices  in  his 
son’s  fate,  although  he  alone  believes  him  guilty.  The 
messenger,  indeed,  bluntly  tells  the  king  that  he  is 
deceived: 

“  Yet  to  one  thing  I  never  will  give  credence, 

That  this  thy  son  has  done  a  deed  of  baseness — 

Not  should  the  whole  of  womankind  go  hang. 

And  score  the  pines  of  Ida  with  their  letters, 

Because  I  know— I  know  that  he  is  noble.” 

Diana,  it  may  seem  to  the  reader,  is  far  from  being  a 
help  to  her  devoted  friend  and  worshipper  in  his  time 
of  trouble.  The  cause  she  assigns  for  her  inability  to 
save  him  gives  a  curious  insight  into  the  comity  of  the 
ancient  gods.  She  tells  Theseus  that  his  sin  is  rank,  yet 
not  quite  unpardonable: 

“  For  Cypris  willed  that  these  things  should  be  SO 
To  glut  her  rage ;  and  this  with  gods  is  law. 

That  none  against  another’s  will  resists 
Qr  offers  hindrance,  but  we  stand  aloof. 

Else  be  assured,  had  not  the  fear  of  Zeus 
Deterred  me,  I  had  not  so  sunk  in  shame 
As  to  let  die  the  dearest  unto  me 
Of  mortal  men.” 

She  then  shows  to  The»eus  how  widely  he  has  erred. 
Next  follows  a  most  affecting  scene  of  reconciliation 
between  the  distracted  father  and  his  dying  son.  Diana 
soothes  the  last  moments  of  Hippolytus  by  a  promise 
that  he  shall  be  worshipped  with  highest  honors  at 
Troezen : 


HIPPOL  YTUS. 


143 


“  For  girls  unwed,  before  their  marriage-day, 

Shall  offer  their  shorn  tresses  at  thy  shrine, 

And  dower  thee  through  long  ages  with  rich  tears; 

And  many  a  maid  shall  raise  the  tuneful  hymn 
In  praise  of  thee,  and  ne’er  shall  Phaedra’s  love 
Perish  in  silence  and  be  left  unsung.” 

The  “  Hippolytus”  was  produced  in  b.c.  428.  In  the 
previous  year  Pericles  died  of  the  plague,  which  for 
some  months  longer  continued  to  rage  in  Athens.  To 
the  pestilence  and  the  death  of  the  greatest  of  Attic 
statesmen  there  are  palpable  allusions  in  this  tragedy, 
which  to  contemporary  spectators  cannot  fail  to  have 
been  deeply  affecting.  The  nurse  of  Phaedra  bewails 
her  lot  as  an  attendant  on  a  suffering  mistress: 

“  Alas  for  mortal  woes! 

Alas  for  fell  disease  1 

Better  be  sick  than  be  the  sick  one’s  nurse 
Sickness  is  sickness,  nothing  worse; 

Nursing  is  sorrow  in  double  kind, 

Sorrow  of  toiling  hands,  sorrow  of  troubled  mind. 

Our  sorrows  know  no  healing.” 

And  the  final  stave  of  the  choral  song  unmistakably 
refers  to  Pericles : 

“  Upon  all  in  the  city  alike 
This  sudden  sorrow  will  strike. 

There  will  be  much  shedding  of  tears. 

When  evil  assails  the  great 
Many  bewail  his  fate; 

Grief  for  him  grows  with  the  years.” 


144 


EURIPIDES. 


CHAPTER  yin. 

THE  PHOENICIAN  WOMEN. — THE  SUPPLIANTS. — THE  CHIL¬ 
DREN  OF  HERCULES. — THE  PHRENZY  OF  HERCULES. 

“  Both  tugging  to  be  victors,  breast  to  breast, 

Yet  neither  conqueror  nor  conquered; 

So  is  the  equal  poise  of  this  fell  war.” 

— “  Henry  VI.,  » 3d  Part. 

Even  did  space  permit,  it  is  unnecessary  to  dwell 
minutely  upon  several  of  the  plays  of  Euripides.  The 
seven  extant  dramas  of  iEschylus  and  the  same  num¬ 
ber  of  those  of  Sophocles  deserved  and  admitted  of 
analysis,  and  already  seven  pieces  of  their  rival  s  have 
passed  under  review.  Of  the  ten  which  remain,  some 
were  occasional  plays;  others  have  apparently  no  con¬ 
nection  with  one  another,  even  did  we  happeuto  know 
the  trilogy  to  which  they  belonged.  Of  these,  some 
would  seem  to  have  been  composed  for  a  special  pur¬ 
pose —  either  local,  as  complimentary  to  Athens,  or 
political,  with  a  view  to  the  affairs  of  Greece  when  they 
were  produced.  For  English  readers  they  retain  little 
interest;  yet  although  their  merits  as  dramas  are  slight, 
they,  like  all  the  author’s  writings,  contain  some  ad¬ 
mirable  poetry,  or  some  effective  scenes  and  situations. 

In  the  “Phoenician  Women,”  Euripides  displays 
some  of  his  greatest  defects  in  the  construction  of  a 
tragedy,  and  some  of  his  most  conspicuous  beauties  as 
a  pathetic  and  picturesque  writer.  As  to  its  plot,  it  is 
cumbrous;  and,  what  is  still  worse,  he  competes  in  it 
with  the  “Antigone”  of  Sophocles  and  the  “Seven 
against  Thebes”  of  iEscliylus.  Jocasta,  who  in  “  (Edi- 


THE  PHOENICIAN  WOMEN 


145 


pus  the  King”  destroys  herself,  is  alive  again  in  this 
drama.  The  brothers,  whose  rivalry  and  death  by  each 
other’s  hand  were  familiar  to  all,  repeat  their  duel,  and 
the  devotion  of  Antigone  to  her  blind  father  and  her 
younger  brother  is  brought  or  rather  crammed  into  it  at 
the  end.  We  have,  in  fact,  almost  a  trilogy  pressed  into 
a  single  member  of  it,  and  in  consequence  the  “  Phoeni¬ 
cian  Women”  is,  with  the  exception  of  the  “  (Edipus  at 
Colonus,”  the  longest  of  extant  Greek  tragedies.  Eu¬ 
ripides  forgot  the  sound  advice  given  by  the  poetess 
Corinna  to  her  youthful  rival,  Pindar.  He  had  been, 
she  thought,  too  profuse  in  his  mythological  stories,  and 
therefore  advised  him  for  the  future  “to  sow  with  the 
hand  and  not  with  the  sack.” 

As  the  story  of  the  “  Phoenician  Women”  has  in  the 
main  been  already  told  in  the  volume  of  this  series 
devoted  to  iEschylus,  and  also  as  many  English  readers 
are  acquainted  with  the  “  Fibres  Etinemis”  of  Racine, 
it  is  not  perhaps  necessary  to  detail  again  the  tale  of 
Eteocles  and  Polynices.  It  will  suffice  to  present  a  por¬ 
tion  of  one  or  two  scenes,  so  as  to  give  some  idea  of  the 
pure  ore  that  lies  imbedded  in  this  tragical  conglomerate. 
The  scene  in  which  the  old  servant  of  the  royal  house 
leads  Antigone  to  a  tower  whence  she  gazes  upon  the 
Argive  host  encamped  around  Thebes,  even  though  it 
is  borrowed  from  that  book  of  the  Iliad  in  which  Helen 
surveys  from  the  walls  of  Troy  the  Achaean  chieftains, 
exhibits  a  master’s  hand.  The  servant  can  point  out 
to  his  young  mistress  the  leaders  of  the  Argives,  and 
describe  the  blazonry  of  their  shields,  because  he  has 
been  in  their  camp,  when  he  took  to  Polynices  the  offer 
of  a  truce.  After  carefully  exploring  the  ground  to 
make  sure  that  no  Theban  is-  in  sight,  whose  gaze  tnight 
light  on  the  maiden,  he  says  to  her: 


146 


EURIPIDES. 


“  Come  then,  ascend  this  height,  let  thy  foot  tread 
These  stairs  of  ancient  cedar,  thence  survey 
The  plains  beneath:  see  what  an  host  of  foes 
At  Dirce's  fount  encamp,  and  stretch  along 
The  valley  where  Ismenus  rolls  his  stream.” 

Antigone,  at  her  first  view  from  the  palace-roof,  ex¬ 
claims* 

“  Awful  Diana  virgin  goddess,  see 
The  field  all  brass  glares  like  the  lightning’s  blaze.” 

The  old  man  then  points  out  to  her  the  captains  of  the 
numerous  host  which  Polynices  has  led  thither  to  assert 
his  rights.  Among  other  heroes,  he  singles  out  one  as 
likely  to  interest  his  young  mistress  "Seest  thou,”  he 
says, 

“  That  chief  now  passing  o’er  the  stream 
Of  Dircd? 

Antig.  Different  he,  of  different  guise 

His  arms.  Who  is  the  warrior? 

Phor.  Tydeus  he. 

The  son  of  CEneus. 

Antig.  What !  the  prince  who  made 

The  sister  of  my  brother’s  bride  his  choice?” 

The  young  ana  graceful  Parthenopseus,  the  proud 
boaster  Capaneus,  and  Hippomedon,  that  “  haughty 
king,”  are  pointed  out;  but  Antigone  casts  only  a  pass¬ 
ing  glance  on  these,  and  3rearns  to  behold  her  brother. 
‘‘  Where  is  my  Polynices,  tell  me?”  '*  He  is  standing 
there  near  the  tomb  of  Niobe,”  is  the  reply.  “  I  see 
him,  but  indist:nctly,”  says  the  princess;  “I  see  the 
semblance  of  his  form  :** 

“  O  could  I  like  a  nimble-moving  cloud. 

Fly  through  the  air,  borne  on  the  winged  winds, 

Fly  to  my  brother:  I  would  throw  my  arms 
Hound  his  dear  neck,  unhappy  youth,  so  long 
An  exile.  Mark  him,  good  old  man^  O  mark 


Tim  pnmNiciAN  woMm. 


w 


How  graceful  in  his  golden  arm  she  stands, 

And  glitters  like  the  bright  sun’s  orient  rays. 

Serv.  The  truce  will  bring  him  hither,  in  this  house 
His  presence  soon  will  fill  thy  soul  with  joy  ” 

Although  not  among  the  leading  characters,  Menceceus, 
the  son  of  Creon,  Jocasta  s  brother,  is  a  most  interest¬ 
ing  one.  The  prophet  Tiresias  has  declared  that 
Thebes  must  be  taken  by  the  Seven,  unless  this  youth 
will  die  for  the  people.  In  deep  distress  Creon  im¬ 
plores  his  son  to  quit  this  fatal  land.  Menceceus, 
“with  an  honest  fraud,”  deceiving  his  father,  freely 
gives  his  life.  He  says: 

“  Were  it  not  base 

While  those,  whom  no  compulsion  of  the  gods, 

No  oracle  demands,  fight  for  their  country, 

Should  I  betray  my  father,  brother,  city, 

And  like  a  craven  yield  to  abject  fear? 

No— byiJove’s  throne  among  the  golden  stars— 

No,  by  the  blood-stained  Mars,  I’ll  take  my  stand 
Upon  the  highest  battlement  of  Thebes, 

And  from  it,  as  the  prophet’s  voice  gave  warning, 

I'll  plunge  into  the  dragon’s  gloomy  cave, 

And  free  this  suffering  land.” 

The  interview  between  the  brothers  is  too  long  for 
extract,  and  would  be  marred  by  compression.  One 
of  the  sentiments,  however,  expressed  bylhe  fierce  and 
unjust  Eteocles,  is  so  truly  in  Shakespeare’s  vein,  that 
we  cannot  pass  it  over.  The  usurping  Theban  king 
says: 

“  For  honor  I  would  mount  above  the  stars, 

Above  the  sun’s  high  course,  or  sink  beneath 
Earth’s  deepest  centre,  might  I  so  obtain 
This  idol  of  my  soul,  this  worshipt  power 
Of  regal  state;  and  to  another  never 
Would  I  resign  her;  hut  myself  engross 
The  splendid  honor:  it  were  base  indeed 
To  barter  for  low  rank  a  kingly  crown. 


148 


MUMPIMS. 


And  shame  it  were  that  he  who  comes  in  arms, 

Spreading  o’er  this  brave  realm  the  waste  of  war, 

Should  his  rude  will  enjoy:  all  Thebes  would  blush 
At  my  dishonor,  did  I,  craven-like, 

Shrink  from  the  Argive  spear,  and  to  his  hand 
Resign  my  rightful  sceptre.” 

Hotspur  speaks  muck  in  the  same  strain  of  “  honor 

“  By  heaven,  methinks  it  were  an  easy  leap 
To  pluck  bright  honor  from  the  pale-faced  moon ; 

Or  dive  into  the  bottom  of  the  deep, 

Where  fathom-line  could  never  touch  the  ground, 

And  pluck  up  drowned  honor  by  the  locks; 

So  he  that  doth  redeem  her  thence,  might  wear 
Without  co-rival  all  her  dignities.” 

By  the  voluntary  death  of  Menceceus  victory  is  on 
the  Theban  side.  The  description  of  the  battle  is 
among  the  most  striking  of  dramatic  war-scenes.  A 
messenger  then  enters  with  further  tidings.  He  tells 
Jocasta  that  her  sons  have  agreed  to  spare  further  shed¬ 
ding  of  blood,  and  to  decide  their  quarrel  by  single 
combat.  Here  is  a  new  woe  added  to  the  many  calami¬ 
ties  of  the  house  of  Laius.  Jocasta  hurries  to  pre¬ 
vent  this  unnatural  duel,  but  arrives  too  late.  A 
second  messenger  then  describes  the  deadly  strife  in 
which  the  brothers  have  fallen,  and  also  Jocasta’s  death 
by  her  own  hands.  The  bodies  of  the  two  fratricides 
are  brought  on  the  stage,  and  a  funeral  wail  is  sung  by 
Antigone  and  the  Chorus.  For  her  a  new  tragedy  is 
commencing.  Reft  of  her  mother,  her  betrothed 
Menceceus,  and  her  brothers,  she  is  forbidden  by 
Creon,  now  become  regent  of  Thebes,  to  perform  the 
last  functions  for  her  dear  Polynices.  The  tragedy 
concludes  with  her  declaration  that  man  may  make  cruel 
laws,  and  forbid  the  rites  of  sepulture,  but  she  will 
obey  a  higher  law*  that  of  nature>  and  do  meet  honor 


TUP  SUPPLIANTS. 


14§ 


to  the  dead.  That  no  circumstance  of  sorrow  may  be 
wanting  to  Autigone’s  lot,  blind,  old,  discrowned 
(Edipus  is  sentenced  to  banisbment  forever  from  bis 
late  kingdom.  His  sons  unrighteously  deposed  him; 
he  rashly  cursed  them  in  his  ire:  the  curse  has  been 
fatal  to  his  whole  house,  and  now  falls  on  his  own 
head.  He  who,  by  baffling  the  Sphinx,  won  a  king¬ 
dom,  goes  forth  from  it  a  beggar  to  eat  the  bitter  bread 
of  exile.  With  him  goes  his  daughter,  the  one  stead¬ 
fast  star  left  to  guide  him  on  his  dark  way.  The  shade 
of  Laius  is  at  length  appeased:  the  sceptre  has  forever 
departed  from  the  house  of  Labdacus. 

“  The  Suppliants”  is,  as  regards  the  time  of  action, 
a  sequel  to  “The  Phoenicians”  and  “The  Seven  against 
Thebes”  of  iEscliylus.  Creon  persists  in  denying  the 
rites  of  sepulture  to  the  fallen  Argive  chieftains. 
The  commander  of  that  disastrous  expedition,  Adras- 
tus,  now  the  sole  survivor  of  the  seven,  hurries  to 
Eleusis  on  the  Athenian  border,  accompanied  by  the 
widows  and  sons  of  the  slain,  and  takes  refuge  at  the 
altar  of  Demeter.  A  passage  from  “  The  Two  Noble 
Kinsmen”  of  Fletcher  explains  far  better  than  the  pro¬ 
logue  of  the  Greek  tragedy  does  the  errand  of  the  Sup¬ 
pliants  : 

“  We  are  six  queens,  whose  sovereigns  fell  before 
The  wrath  of  cruel  Creon:  who  endure 
The  beaks  of  ravens,  talons  of  the  kites, 

And  pecks  of  crows,  in  the  foul  fields  of  Thebes: 

He  will  not  suffer  us  to  burn  their  bones, 

To  urn  their  ashes,  nor  to  take  th’  offence 
Of  mortal  loathsomeness  from  the  blest  eye 
Of  holy  Phoebus,  but  infects  the  winds 
With  stench  of  our  slain  lords.  Oh,  pity,  Duke! 

Thou  purger  of  the  earth,  draw  thy  feared  sword 
That  does  good  turns  to  the  world :  give  us  the  bones 
Of  our  dead  kings*,  that  We  may  Chapel  them* 


m 


fttrniriMs. 


And  of  thy  boundless  goodness  take  some  note 
That  for  our  crowned  heads  we  have  no  roof 
Save  this,  which  is  the  lion's  and  the  bear’s, 

And  vault  for  everything.” 

Through  the  mediation  of  JSthra,  mother  of  Theseus, 
king  of  Athens,  the  Suppliants  are  enabled  to  bring 
their  wrongs  before  him.  Theseus  at  first  is  unwilling 
to  espouse  their  cause:  to  do  so  will  embroil  Athens 
m  a  war  with  Thebes.  He  is  by  no  means  a  cheerful 
giver  of  aid:  revolving  in  his  soul  “the  various  turns 
of  chance  below,”  he  expatiates  on  the  uncertainty  of 
human  greatness,  and  hints  that  Adrastus  himself  is  an 
instance  of  the  folly  of  interfering  with  other  people’s 
business.  But  iEthra,  whose  woman’s  nature  is  deeply 
moved  by  the  tears  of  the  widowed  queens,  will  hear  of 
nodenial;  an  d  Theseus  a  tlast,  though  reluctantly,  pro¬ 
mises  to  take  up  their  cause.  Just  as  he  is  dispatching 
a  herald  to  Creon  to  demand  the  bodies  of  the  slain,  a 
Theban  messenger  comes  with  a  peremptory  mandate 
from  Creon  that  Adrastus  and  his  companions  be  de¬ 
livered  up.  It  must  be  owned  that,  at  this  juncture, 
Theseus  is  rather  a  proser.  Forgetting  the  urgency  of 
the  case — that  dogs  and  vultures  may  already  be  prey¬ 
ing  on  the  dead — he  discourses  on  the  comparative 
merits  of  aristocratic  and  popular  government,  and  on 
the  sin  of  refusing  burial  even  to  enemies.  Theseus 
in  the  end  consents  to  do  what,  to  be  done  well,  ought 
to  be  done  quickly.  He  sends  back  the  Theban  herald, 
after  rating  him  soundly,  with  a  stern  response  to  his 
master.  He  follows  at  the  herald’s  heels,  defeats  Creon, 
and  brings  back  to  Eleusis  the  bodies  of  the  Argive 
princes.  The  Chorus  enters  in  procession,  chanting  a 
dirge,  Adrastus  speaks  the  funeral  oration.  The  dead 
are  then  placed  on  a  pyre)  and  when  it  is  kindled, 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  HERCULES.  151 


Evadne,  wife  of  the  boaster  Capaneus,  leaps  on  his  pile. 
Finally,  a  deity  appears  as  mediator.  Minerva  ratifies 
a  treaty  between  Argos  and  Athens,  and  predicts  that, 
at  no  distant  day,  the  now  worsted  Argos  will,  in  its 
turn,  humble  the  pride  of  Thebes. 

In  this  tragedy  there  is  a  monotony  of  woe,  not  re¬ 
lieved,  as  in  the  case  of  “The  Trojan  Women”  of 
Euripides,  by  a  series  of  beautiful  choral  odes  and 
picturesque  situations.  The  red  flames  of  the  six 
funeral  pyres,  indeed,  must  have  been  effective;  and  a 
second  Chorus  of  youths,  the  orphaned  sons  of  the 
chieftains,  have  deepened  the  pathos  excited  by  the 
suppliant  queens.  By  it  the  dramatist  employed  two 
of  his  favorite  modes  of  touching  the  spectators — the 
aid  of  women  and  the  introduction  of  children.  Per¬ 
haps  he  had  witnessed  that  sad  and  solemn  spectacle 
at  which  Pericles  pronounced  the  encomium  over  the 
firstlings  of  the  slain  in  the  Peloponnesian  war,  and 
so  transferred  to  a  mimic  scene  the  reality  of  a  people’s 
mourning. 

“The  Children  of  Hercules”  need  not  detain  us  long, 
its  drift  being  very  similar  to  that  of  the  tragedy  of 
“The  Suppliants.”  Apparently  it  was  written  at  a 
time  when  Argos  was  recovering  some  of  her  earlier 
importance  among  the  Dorian  states,  owing  to  the  strain 
put  upon  the  resources  of  Sparta  by  the  length  of  her 
war  with  Athens.  The  Argives,  it  might  be  feared, 
were  inclined  to  throw  their  weight  into  the  scale  of 
Thebes  and  Lacedaemon,  and  stood  in  need  of  some 
timeiy  advice.  The  children  of  Hercules,  hunted  by 
their  enemies,  and  driven  to  take  sanctuary  at  Marathon, 
where  the  scene  of  action  is  laid,  were  sheltered  by 
Athens,  and  from  these  fugitives  the  Argives  of  the 
time  of  Euripides  were  supposed  to  descend.  Let  Argos 


152 


EURIPIDES. 


now  bear  in  mind  this  good  service:  let  her  remember 
also  the  many  and  grievous  wrongs  done  to  her  by  the 
cruel  and  faithless  Spartans.  If  Thebes  and  the  Argive 
government  enabled  Sparta  to  enfeeble  Athens,  and  so 
disturb  the  balance  of  power  in  Greece,  who  would  be 
the  gainer  by  such  league?  Who  the  loser  would  be  it 
was  not  difficult  to  foresee.  When  was  Sparta,  in  her 
prosperity,  ever  faithful  to  her  allies,  or  even  com¬ 
monly  just?  What  had  Thebes  ever  done  for  Argos  to 
make  alliance  with  her  desirable?  Who  had  been  the 
real  benefactors  of  the  Argive  people,  their  kinsfolk 
in  blood,  or  the  Ionians  of  Attica?  With  Athens  to 
aid  her,  she  might  regain  the  position  she  once  held 
among  the  Dorian  race:  but  if  Athens  fell  she  would 
be  as  the  Messenians  were  now,  little  more  than  an 
appanage  of  the  kings  or  ephors  of  her  powerful  neigh¬ 
bor. 

Passing  over  this  play  as  historically  rather  than 
dramatically  interesting  to  modern  readers,  we  come 
now  to  “The  Phrenzy  of  Hercules,”  which  for  some 
fine  scenes  in  it,  and  some  very  curious  Euripidean 
theology,  deserves  attention.  It  presents  no  tokens  of 
having  been  a  hurried  or  occasional  composition.  Am¬ 
phitryon,  who  delivers  the  prologue,  is,  with  Megara, 
the  wife  of  Hercules,  and  her  sons,  cruelly  treated  by 
Lycus,  king,  or  more  properly  the  usurping  tyrant,  of 
Thebes.  He,  an  adventurer  from  Eubcea,  had  slain 
Creon,  lord  of  that  city;  and  to  insure  himself  on  his 
throne,  has  ordered  Megara,  Creon’s  daughter,  and  her 
children  by  Hercules,  for  execution.  Her  husband  is 
at  the  time  detained  in  Hades,  whither  he  has  gone  on 
a  very  hazardous  expedition,  and  his  family  despair  of 
his  return.  Lycus,  his  “wish  being  father  to  the 


THE  PH  HENZE  OF  HERQULES.  153 


thought,”  is  of  the  same  opinion;  hut  fearing  that  the 
young  Heracleids  may  some  day  requite  him  for  the 
murder  of  their  grandfather  Creon,  he  resolves,  like 
Macbeth,  to  put  his  mind  at  ease  by  despatching  all 
“Bauquo’s  issue.”  But  on  this  point  both  the  tyrant 
and  his  victims  are  mistaken,  for  just  as  Amphitryon, 
Megara,  and  the  children,  are  being  led  forth  to  death, 
Hercules  returns,  rescues  his  family,  and  delivers  Thebes 
from  its  Eubcean  intruder. 

The  taint  of  blood,  however,  is  on  the  redresser  of 
wrongs,  and  from  it  he  must  be  purified  by  sacrifice  to 
the  gods.  And  now  a  worse  foe  to  Hercules  than  Lycus 
had  been  assails  him.  Juno,  whose  ire  against  Jupiter's 
and  Alcmena’s  son  is  as  unappeasable  as  her  hatred 
towards  Paris  and  Troy,  is  not  pleased  with  the  turn 
matters  are  taking.  It  has  been  of  no  avail  to  send 
the  object  of  her  spleen  to  bring  up  Cerberus  from 
below.  Pluto  has  not,  as  she  hoped  her  grimy  brother- 
in-law  would  have  done,  clapped  him  into  prison,  nor 
Charon  refused  him  homeward  passage  over  the  Styx. 
In  the  “Alcestis”  we  have  had  an  impersonation  of 
Death;  in  the  drama  now  before  us  there  is  one  of  Mad¬ 
ness  (Lyssa),  a  daughter  of  Night,  who  bears  the  god¬ 
dess’s  instructions  to  render  Hercules  a  maniac.  For 
this  errand  Madness  has  no  relish :  she  is  more  scrupulous 
than  the  Queen  of  Gods.  “It  is  shameful,”  she  says- 
“  to  persecute  one  who  has  served  mankind  so  well — de¬ 
stroying  beasts  of  prey,  and  executing  justice  on  many 
notorious  thieves  and  cut-throats.”  But  Iris,  one  of  the 
Olympian  couriers,  tells  Lyssa,  whom  she  accompanies, 
that  “  Juno  is  not  a  person  to  be  trifled  with;  that  unless 
mortals  in  future  be  permitted  to  beard  divinities,  Her¬ 
cules  must  be  made  to  feel  the  full  weight  of  celestial 
wrath.  If  a  god  or  a  goddess  be  out  of  temper,  even  the 


154 


mmpiDm. 


best  and  most  valiant  of  men  must  smart/’  Reluctantly 
Lyssa  complies  with  the  divine  best.  Hercules,  while 
engaged  in  the  expiatory  sacrifice,  goes  suddenly  dis¬ 
traught:  conceiving  them  to  be  foes,  he  murders  his 
wife  and  their  three  sons,  narrowly  misses  sending  his 
earthly  father,  Amphitryon,  to  the  Shades,  and  is  ex¬ 
hibited,  after  an  interval  filled  up  with  a  Choric  song, 
bound,  as  a  dangerous  lunatic,  with  cords  to  a  pillar. 
The  bleeding  corpses  of  his  household  lie  before  him. 
Restored  to  his  right  mind,  he  is  appalled  by  his  own 
deed.  Theseus,  whom  Hercules  has  just  before  released 
from  durance  in  Pluto’s  realm,  comes  on  and  offers  to 
his  deliverer  ghostly  consolation.  The  pair  of  friends 
depart  for  Alliens,  where  the  maniac  shall  be  purged  of 
his  offence  to  heaven.  Only  in  the  city  of  the  Virgin- 
goddess  can  rest  and  absolution  be  accorded  to  him. 

In  “The  Suppliants”  we  have  some  insight  into  the 
political  opinions  of  its  author.  In  “The  Plirenzy  of 
Hercules”  there  is  a  glimpse  of  his  theology.  Very 
early  in  this  drama  are  religious  sentiments,  not,  indeed, 
of  a  very  consistent  nature,  introduced.  Amphitryon, 
for  example,  when  his  prospects  are  most  gloomy,  taxes 
Jupiter  with  unfair  dealing  towards  his  copartner  in 
marriage,  to  his  daughter-in-law  Megara,  and  to  his 
grandsons.  But  when  Lycus  has  been  slain,  then  the 
Chorus  proclaims  that  a  signal  instance  of  divine  justice 
has  been  shown.  When  Hercules  regains  his  senses, 
Theseus  labors  to  putjiis  soul  at  ease  by  the  following 
arguments : 

“  This  ruin  from  none  other  god  proceeds 
Than  from  the  wife  of  Jove.  Well  thou  dost  know 
To  counsel  others  is  an  easier  task 
Than  to  bear  ills:  yet  none  of  mortal  men 
Escape  unhurt  by  fortune;  not  the  gods, 

Unless  the  stories  of  the  bards  be  false. 


TEE  PHRENZY  OF  HERCULES.  155 


Have  they  not  formed  connubial  ties,  to  which 
No  law  assents?  Have  they  not  galled  with  chains 
Their  fathers  through  ambition?  Yet  they  hold 
Their  mansions  on  Olympus,  and  their  wrongs 
With  patience  bear.  What  wilt  thou  say,  if  thou, 

A  mortal  born,  too  proudly  shouldst  contend 
'Gainst  adverse  fortune?” 

To  which  Hercules  replies : 

“  Ah  me !  all  this  is  foreign  to  my  ills. 

I  deem  not  of  the  gods,  as  having  formed 
Connubial  ties  to  which  no  law  assents, 

Nor  as  opprest  with  chains:  disgraceful  this 
I  hold,  nor  ever  will  believe  that  one 
Lords  it  o’er  others:  of  no  foreign  aid 
The  God,  who  is  indeed  a  God,  hath  need: 

These  are  the  idle  fables  of  your  bards.” 

However,  ne  consents  to  go  with  Theseus  to  Athens, 
and  will  not  add  the  guilt  of  suicide  to  that  of  homi¬ 
cide. 

This  play  seems  at  no  time  to  have  been  a  favorite 
with  either  spectators  or  readers.  For  the  former,  this 
dose  of  Anaxagorean  philosophy  may  have  been  too 
strong:  for  the  latter,  the  piece  may  have  seemed  to  fol¬ 
low  “a  course  too  bloody*”  Yet  among  the  tragic 
spectacles  on  the  Athenian  stage,  that  of  Hercules 
bound  to  a  column,  with  the  remains  of  his  wife  and 
children  before  him,  and  the  terror-stricken  looks  of 
Amphitryon  and  his  attendants,  was  surely  one  of  the 
most  affecting. 


156 


EURIPIDES, 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE  TALE  OF  TROY :  HECUBA— THE  TROJAN  WOMEN. 

“  High  barrows,  without  marble,  or  a  name, 

A  vast  untilled  and  mountain -skirted  plain, 

And  Ida  in  the  distance,  still  the  same, 

And  old  Scamander  (if  ’tis  he)  remain; 

The  situation  seems  still  formed  for  fame— 

A  hundred  thousand  men  might  fight  again 
With  ease;  but  where  I  sought  for  Ilion’s  walls, 

The  quiet  sheep  feeds,  and  the  tortoise  crawls.” 

— “  Don  Juan,”  Cant.  iv. 

On  subjects  connected  with  the  Tale  of  Troy,  ten 
dramas  by  Euripides,  if  the  “  Rhesus”  be  counted  among 
them,  are  extant,  and  these  represent  a  small  portion 
only  of  the  themes  he  drew  from  the  perennial  suppty  of 
the  Homeric  poems.  The  ancient  epic,  like  the  modern 
novel,  although  widely  differing  from  tragedy  in  its 
form  and  substance,  abounds  in  dramatic  material. 
Mauy  plays,  indeed,  by  Euripides  and  other  dramatic 
poets  of  the  time,  were  derived  from  the  Cyclic  poets, 
who  either  continued  the  Iliad,  and  brought  the  story 
down  to  the  fall  of  Troy,  or  took  episodes  in  it  as  the 
groundwork  of  their  dramas.  Whether  coming  from 
the  mainstream  or  from  its  branches,  the  result  was  the 
same;  and  the  heroes  who  espoused  the  cause  of  Mene- 
laus  were  most  of  them  suited  for  transplantation  to  the 
theatre. 

Two  of  the  ten  plays  which  have  Troy  for  their 
subject,  directly  or  indirectly,  have  been  noticed  in  a 
previous  chapter;  another,  the  “  Cyclops,”  will  be  ex¬ 
amined  presently.  The  “Rhesus,”  being  of  uncertain 
authorship,  will  be  passed  over.  Of  the  seven  that 


THE  TALE  OF  TROY:  HECUBA.  157 


remain  only  a  brief  sketch  can  be  given.  The  Two 
Iphigenias,  indeed,  might  alone  suffice  to  show  how 
well  fitted  for  the  genius  of  their  poet  was  the  Lay 
of  Achilles  or  the  Wanderings  of  Ulysses. 

The  fire  that  consumed  Priam’s  capital  is  still  smoul¬ 
dering  when  the  action  of  the  “Hecuba”  and  the  “Tro¬ 
jan  Women”  begins.  The  scene  of  the  former  of  these 
two  tragedies  is  placed  in  the  Thracian  Chersonesus — 
now  the  Crimea.  The  Chorus  is  composed  of  Trojan 
captive  women,  a  few  days  before  the  subjects,  now  the 
fellow-prisoners,  of  their  queen.  In  the  centre  of  the 
stage  stands  Agamemnon’s  tent,  in  a  compartment  of 
which  Hecuba  and  her  attendants  are  lodged.  The 
prologue  is  spoken  by  her  youngest  son  Polydorus, 
whom  she  supposes  to  be  living,  but  who  has  been  foully 
murdered  by  his  guardian  Polymnestor,  the  Thracian 
king.  His  ghost  hovers  over  the  tent,  and  after  inform¬ 
ing  the  audience  of  the  manner  of  his  death,  he  van¬ 
ishes  just  as  liis  aged  mother  enters  on  the  stage.  One 
more  woe  is  soon  imparted  to  Hecuba  by  the  Chorus. 
The  shade  of  Achilles  has  appeared  in  glittering  armor 
on  his  tomb,  and  demanded  a  victim.  Again  the  Greek 
ships  are  delayed;  again  a  virgin  must  be  sacrified  be¬ 
fore  their  anchors  can  be  weighed.  The  young  life  of 
Ipliigenia  was  required  before  the  host  could  leave 
Aulis;  and  now  the  blood  of  Polyxena,  Priam’s  young¬ 
est  daughter,  must  be  shed  before  the  Grecian  prows 
can  be  turned  homewards. 

The  sacrifice  of  the  daughter  is  over,  when  the  fate 
of  her  son  is  reported  to  the  miserable  mother.  An  old 
attendant  has  been  sent  to  fetch  water  from  the  sea, 
with  which  Hecuba  will  bathe — “  not  for  the  bridal  bed, 
but  for  the  tomb” — the  dead  body  of  Polyxena.  The 
corpse  of  Polydorus  is  found  by  the  attendant  cnsf  pft 


158 


EURIPIDES. 


the  sea-beach  by  the  wave.  The  sum  of  her  woes  is 
now  complete.  Her  other  sons  lmve  fallen  in  the  war; 
no  daughter  remains  to  her  except  the  prophetess  Cas¬ 
sandra,  who  is  herself  the  bondwomau  of  Agamemnon; 
and  now  her  last  stay  is  rudely  torn  from  her — her 
youngest  born,  her  Benjamin,  lies  dead  on  the  sands. 
One  hope  alone  remains  for  her  to  cherish — the  hope  of 
revenge  on  the  murderer  of  her  boy;  and  it  is  speedily 
gratified.  The  treacherous  guardian  comes  to  the  Gre¬ 
cian  camp,  is  inveigled  by  Hecuba  into  the  tent,  and 
thence  thrust  forth  eyeless  and  with  bleeding  visage,  by 
the  infuriated  mother  and  her  attendants.  This,  “  if 
not  victory,  is  at  least  revenge.” 

The  merits  of  this  tragedy  have  been  much  canvassed. 
The  plot  has  been  pronounced  monstrous,  overcharged 
with  woe,  and,  besides,  unskilfully  split  into  two  uncon¬ 
nected  portions.  The  immolation  of  Polyxena  and  the 
murder  of  Polydorus  have,  it  is  alleged,  no  necessary 
connection  with  each  other.  There  might  have  been 
two  plays  made  out  of  this  single  one — the  first  con¬ 
cluding  with  the  death  of  the  daughter,  the  second  with 
the  vengeance  taken  for  the  son.  It  may  be  so;  but 
was  that  the  view  of  the  story  taken  by  Euripides? 
May  he  not  have  said  to  objectors,  the  continuity  of  my 
play  lies  not  where  you  look  for  it,  but  in  the  character 
of  the  person  from  whom  it  is  named?  The  double 
murder  of  her  children  is  a  mere  incident  in  the  action; 
the  unity  is  to  be  found  in  her  strong  will.  Old,  feeble, 
and  helpless  as  she  is,  the  mind  of  the  ex-queen  of  Troy 
is  never  clouded.  Suffering  even  lends  her  new  force 
to  act;  the  deeper  her  woe  the  more  clearly  she  perceives 
that  all  help  is  vain  if  it  come  not  from  her  own  daunt¬ 
less  spirit.  It  is  the  tragedy  of  Hecuba,  not  of  Polyxena 
or  Polydorus 


THE  TALE  OP  TROT:  EEC  VBA.  159 


English  readers  may  find  an  excuse,  if  one  be  needed, 
of  which  ancient  objectors  could  not  avail  themselves. 
For  is  not  the  Hecuba  of  Euripides  near  of  kin,  as  a 
dramatic  character,  to  the  Queen  Margaret  of  Shake¬ 
speare?  Her  also  accumulated  woes  strengthen  even 
when  they  seem  to  crush.  She  also  is  made  childless; 
she,  like  her  Greek  prototype,  is  a  widow  and  dis¬ 
crowned.  Yet  with  what  v4gor  and  what  disdain 
does  she  to  the  last  look  down  upon  her  Ulysses,  the 
crafty  Duke  of  Gloucester,  and  her  Agamemnon,  the 
voluptuous  Edward!  The  description  of  Polyxena’s 
sacrifice  is  among  the  most  beautiful  and  pathetic  pic¬ 
tures  in  the  Athenian  drama.  The  herald  reports  to 
Hecuba  how  bravely  her  daughter  has  met  her  doom: 

“  The  assembled  host  of  Greece  before  the  tomb 
Stood  in  full  ranks  at  this  sad  sacrifice— 

Achilles’  son,  holding  the  virgin’s  hand 
On  the  mound’s  summit:. near  to  him  I  stood; 

Of  chosen  youths  an  honorable  train 
Were  ready  there  her  struggling  to  restrain.” 

When  silence  has  been  proclaimed  through  the  host, 
and  libations  poured  to  the  shade  of  Achilles,  Pyrrhus 
spoke  these  words: 

“  O  son  of  Peleus.  O  my  father 
Accept  my  offering,  soothing  to  the  dead ; 

I>rink  this  pure  crimson  stream  of  virgin-blood, 

Loose  all  our  cables,  fill  our  sails,  and  grant 
Swift  passage  homeward  to  the  Grecian  host.” 

The  people  joined  in  the  prayer:  Pyrrhus  drew  from  its 
scabbard  his  golden  sword,  and 

“  At  his  nod 

The  noble  youths  stept  forth  to  hold  the  maiden, 

Which  she  perceiving,  with  these  words  addressed  them: 

*  Willing  I  die;  let  no  hand  touch  me;  boldly 
To  the  uplifted  sword  I  hold  my  neck. 


160 


EURIPIDES. 


you  give  me  to  the  gocls,  then  give  me  fre  >.« 

Loud  the  applause,  then  Agamemnon  cried : 

‘  Let  no  man  touch  her:  ’  and  the  youths  drew  back. 

Soon  as  she  heard  the  royal  words,  she  clasped 
Her  robe,  and  from  her  shoulder  rent  it  down, 

And  bared  her  snow-white  bosom,  beauteous 
Beyond  the  deftest  sculptor’s  nicest  art. 

Then  bending  to  the  earth  her  knee,  she  said — 

Ear  never  yet  has  heard  more  mournful  words — 

‘  If  ’tis  thy  will,  young  man,  to  strike  this  breast, 

Strike;  or  my  throat  dost  thou  prefer,  behold 
It  stretched  to  meet  thy  swrord.’  ” 

Even  the  “rugged  Pyrrhus”  is  touched  with  pity, 
pauses,  and  at  last  reluctantly, 

“  Deep  in  her  bosom  plunged  the  shining  steel. 

Her  life-blood  gushed  in  streams:  yet  e’en  in  death, 
Studious  of  modesty,  her  beauteous  limbs 
She  covered  with  her  robe.” 

THE  TROJAN  WOMEN. 

The  action  of  this  play  takes  place  a  few  days  before 
that  of  the  “Hecuba.”  It  is  not,  properly  speaking,  a 
drama,  for  it  has  scarcely  any  fable.  “It  is,”  says 
Dean  Milman,  “a  series  of  pathetic  speeches  and  ex¬ 
quisite  odes  on  the  fall  of  Troy.  What  can  be  more 
admirable,  in  the  midst  of  all  these  speeches  of  woe 
and  sorrow,  than  the  wild  outburst  of  Cassandra  into  a 
bridal  song,  instead  of,  as  Shakespeare  describes  her, 
‘shrilling  her  dolours  forth *1” 

“  A  light !  a  light!  rise  up,  be  swift: 

I  seize,  I  worship,  and  I  lift 
The  bridal  torches’  festal  rays, 

Till  all  the  burning  fane’s  ablaze  1 
Hymen,  Hymen oean  king! 

Look  there !  look  there !  what  blessings  wait 
Upon  the  bridegroom’s  nuptial  state! 

And  I,  how  blest,  who  proudly  ride 
Through  Argos’  streets,  a  queenly  bride  \ 


THE  TROJAN  WOMEN. 


161 


Go  thou,  my  mother!  gol 
With  many  a  gushing  tear 
And  frantic  shriek  of  woe. 

Wail  for  thy  sire,  thy  country  dearl 
I  the  while,  in  bridal  glee 
Lift  the  glowing,  glittering  fire. 

Hymen !  Hymen !  all  to  thee 
Flames  the  torch  and  rings  the  lyre. 

Bless,  O  Hecate,  the  rite ; 

Send  thy  soft  and  holy  light 
To  the  virgin’s  nuptial  bed, 

Lightly  lift  the  airy  tread ! 

Evan !  Evan !  dance  along. 

Holy  are  the  dance  and  song; 

Meetest  they  to  celebrate 
My  father  Priam’s  blissful  fate. 
Beauteous-vested  maids  of  Troy, 

Sing  my  song  of  nuptial  joy! 

Sing  the  fated  husband  led 
To  my  virgin  bridal  bed.”  * 

In  another  choral  song,  the  rejoicing  of  Troy,  at  the 
very  moment  when  the  Greeks,  coming  out  from  their 
ambush  in  the  wooden  horse,  were  stealthily  creeping 
to  unbar  the  gates  and  admit  the  host  from  without,  is 
described : 

“  Shouted  all  the  people  loud 
On  the  rock-built  height  that  stood— 

‘  Come,’  they  sang,  as  on  they  prest, 

‘Come,’  from  all  our  toil  released, 

Lead  the  blest  image  to  the  shrine 
Of  her  the  Jove-born  Trojan  maid-divine. 

•  •  •  *  •  ♦  • 

O’er  the  toil,  the  triumph,  spread 
Silent  night  her  curtained  shade, 

But  Lybian  fifes  still  sweetly  rang,' 

And  many  a  Phrygian  air  they  sang, 


*  Dean  Milman— “  Fragments  from  the  Greek  Tragedians,” 
from  which  volume  the  following  translations  are  taken. 


162 


EURIPIDES . 


And  maidens  danced  with  lightsome  feet 
To  the  jocund  measures  sweet, 

And  every  home  was  blazing  bright, 

As  the  glowing  festal  light 

Its  rich  and  ruddy  splendor  streamed, 

Where  high  and  full  the  mantling  wine-cup  beamed. 

•  ••••  •  •  • 

All  at  once  the  cry  of  slaughter, 

Through  the  startled  city  ran ; 

The  cowering  infants  on  their  mother’s  breasts 
Folded  their  trembling  hands  within  her  vests; 

Forth  stalked  the  ambushed  Mars,  and  his  fell  work  began.” 

“Sad,”  said  the  aged  Manoali  in  ‘  Samson  Agon- 
istes/ — 

*‘  Sad,  but  thou  knowest  to  Israelites  not  saddest, 

The  desolation  of  a  hostile  city,’  ” 

and  probably  Athenians,  who  had  laid  waste  many 
cities,  were  not  displeased  by  a  representation  of  the 
destruction  of  Troy.  With  great  skill,  indeed,  Euripi¬ 
des  has  shown  that  the  victors  are  scarcely  less  de¬ 
serving  of  pity  than  the  vanquished.  In  every  Grecian 
state  during  the  ten  years’  siege — and  what  was  true  of 
the  Trojan  was  true  also  of  the  Peloponnesian  war — 
many  had  been  made  widows  and  orphans.  While  the 
Achaean  kings  and  heroes  were  encamped  on  the  Trojan 
strand,  their  wives  have  been  false  to  them,  usurpers 
have  occupied  their  thrones,  or  suitors  to  their  queens 
have  been  faring  sumptuously  at  their  cost.  The  pro¬ 
phecies  of  Cassandra  point  to  further  calamities.  A 
bloody  bath  awaits  Agamemnon;  some,  like  Idomeneus 
and  Diomedes,  must  take  refuge  on  alien  shores; 
thwarting  winds  and  storm}1-  seas  will  keep  for  many 
years  from  their  kingdoms  Ulysses  and  Menelaus;  the 
greater  Ajax  has  been  struck  by  mania,  and  falls  by  liis 
own  hand ;  and  Ajax  Teucer  will  soon  be  transfixed  by 


TUB  TROJAN  WOMEN. 


163 


a  thunderbolt  launched  by  the  outraged  Minerva.  A a 
in  several  Euripidean  tragedies,  women  play  an  impor¬ 
tant  part  in  this  one.  The  daughters  of  Priam  and  their 
attendants  are  distributed-  among  the  black-bearded 
Achaean  captains — Cassandra  is  allotted  to  the  “king 
of  men;”  Andromache  to  Pyrrhus,  the  son  of  him  who 
slew  her  husband;  her  son  Astyanax,  lest  he  prove  a 
second  Hector,  and  avenge  his  father’s  death  on  Argos 
or  Sparta,  is  hurled  from  a  tower;  and  Hecuba  is  as¬ 
signed  to  Ulysses,  whose  wiles,  quite  as  much  as  his 
compeers’  weapons,  have  caused  the  taking  of  Troy. 
As  in  the  “  Suppliant  Women,”  fire  is  employed  to 
render  the  final  scene  effective.  All  of  Troy  that 
escaped  on  the  night  when  it  was  stormed  is  now  given 
over  to  the  flames.  The  tragedy  closes  with  the  fall 
of  column  and  roof,  of  temple  and  palace,  into  a  fiery 
abyss,  and  by  the  red  light  of  the  conflagration  the 
Trojan  women  are  led  off  to  the  Grecian  galleys. 

Passing  over  the  “  Electra,  ”  that  the  Tale  of  Troy 
may  not  weary  English  readers,  and  also  because  what 
is  good  and  wliat  is  bad  in  it  *  would  require  comment 
for  which  there  is  not  room,  the  “  Orestes”  comes  next 
in  order  in  this  batch  of  Euripidean  tragedies.  “  The 
scenes  of  this  drama,”  says  one  who  had  good  right  to 
speak  on  the  subject  of  Greek  Plays, f  “afford  one  of 
the  most  beautiful  exhibitions  of  the  domestic  affections 
which  even  the  dramas  of  Euripides  can  furnish.  To 
the  English  reader  it  may  be  necessary  to  say,  that  the 
situation  at  the  opening  of  the  drama  is  that  of  a  brother 
attended  only  by  his  sister  during  the  demoniacal  posses- 


*  “  Magnse  virtutes  nec  minora  vitia”  would  be  an  appropri¬ 
ate  motto  for  the  “  Electra”  of  Euripides, 
t  J)e  Quincey, 


164 


EURIPIDES , 


sion  of  a  suffering  conscience  (or,  in  the  mythology  of 
the  play,  haunted  by  Furies),  and  in  circumstances  of 
immediate  danger  from  enemies,  and  of  desertion  or 
cold  regard  from  nominal  friends.”  As  to  the  Furies, 
Longinus  says  that  “  the  poet  himself  sees  them,  and 
what  his  imagination  conceives,  he  almost  compels  his 
audience  to  see  also.”  We  do  not  know  how  the  spec¬ 
tators  welcomed  this  tragedy  when  it  was  performed ; 
but  in  later  times  no  one  of  all  the  Attic  tragedies  was 
so  much  approved  as  this  one.  It  is  more  frequently 
cited  than  all  the  plays  of  iEschylus  and  Sophocles  put 
together.  The  depth  of  its  domestic  pathos  touched 
the  Grecian  world,  however  it  may  have  affected  a 
Dionysiac  audience. 

As  in  the  “Libation  Bearers”  of  HSschylus,  Orestes 
has  no  sooner  avenged  the  most  foul  and  unnatural 
murder  of  his  father  than  mania  seizes  him.  When  the 
first  scene  opens,  he  i3  lying  haggard,  blood-besprent, 
unshorn,  unkempt,  and  in  sordid  garments,  on  a  couch, 
beside  which,  for  six  days  and  six  nights,  his  sister 
Electra  has  kept  watch.  During  all  that  time  he  has 
not  tasted  food :  in  his  lucid  intervals  he  is  feeble  and 
fever-stricken;  at  others  he  sees  in  pursuit  of  him  his 
mother’s  vengeful  Furies.  Menelaus,  his  uncle,  has 
recently  returned  from  Troy,  accompanied  by  his  wife, 
Helen,  and  their  daughter,  Hermione.  Here  for  the 
wrretched  maniac  appears  to  be  a  gleam  of  hope:  for 
surely  one  so  near  of  kin  cannot  fail  to  aid  him  against 
the  citizens  of  Argos  who  are  calling  for  his  death,  or 
at  least  perpetual  banishment  as  a  matricide,  taken 
red-handed.  Helen  and  Electra,  after  some  difference 
on  the  subject,  agree  that  Hermione  shall  go  with  offer¬ 
ings  to  Clytemnestra’s  grave.  The  Chorus  composed  of 
Argive  women,  sing  round  the  sick  man’s  bed,  Their 


THE  TROJAN  WOMEN. 


165 


theme  is  the  alternate  ravings  and  rational  moods  of 
Orestes,  nor  do  they  omit  to  celebrate  the  awful  power 
of  the  Furies.  And  now  Menelaus  enters,  but  it  soon 
appears  that  his  nephew  will  have  little  help  from  him. 
He  discovers  that  Orestes  and  Electra  are  to  be  tried  on 
the  capital  charge  of  murder  on  that  very  day,  by  the 
assembled  Argive  people.  The  unhappy  culprit  pleads 
strongly  for  his  sister  and  himself,  and  their  just  claim 
for  the  aid  and  protection  of  the  Spartan  king. 
A  new  enemy  now  appears.  Old  Tyndareus,  the  father 
of  Helen  and  Clytemnestra,  arrives,  and  by  his  argu¬ 
ments  against  Orestes,  decides  his  wavering  son-in-law 
to  remain  neuter  in  the  controversy.  By  craft  and 
shifts  alone  will  Menelaus  take  the  part  of  the  brother 
and  sister.  On  his  part  the  enraged  Tyndareus  will  do 
all  he  can  to  procure  their  condemnation.  Pylades, 
their  only  friend,  urges  Orestes  to  present  himself  to  the 
assembly,  plead  his  own  cause,  and  if  possible,  by  his 
eloquence,  work  on  the  feelings  of  his  judges.  He 
attends,  but  fails  in  obtaining  a  milder  sentence  than 
death — the  only  concession  is,  that  Electra  and  her 
brother  may  put  themselves  to  death,  and  so  avoid  the 
indignity,  prince  and  princess  as  they  are,  of  dying  by 
the  hands  of  a  public  executioner  or  an  infuriated  mob. 
The  condemned  pair  take  a  final  farewell,  when  Pylades 
suggests  a  mode  of  revenge  on  Menelaus.  “  Helen,”  he 
says,  “  is  now  within  the  palace:  slay  her,  and  revenge 
yourselves  on  your  cold-hearted  and  selfish  kinsman. 
Fear  not  her  guards;  they  are  only  a  few  cowardly  and 
feeble  eunuchs.”  To  this  proposal  Electra  adds  a  most 
practical  amendment.  “  Killing  Helen  will  avail  little; 
seize  Hermione — she  is  now  returning  from  Clytemnes- 
tra’s  tomb — and  hold  her  as  a  hostage.  Sooner  than 
bis  daughter  and  only  child  perish,  Menelaus  yril] 


168 


EURIPIDES . 


befriend  you.”  They  combine  both  plans:  Helen  shall 
be  slain;  Hermione  shall  be  seized  upon.  The  former 
escapes  their  hands:  just  as  the  sword  is  at  her  throat 
she  vanishes  into  thin  air,  and,  being  of  divine  origin, 
henceforth  will  share  the  immortality  of  her  brothers, 
Castor  and  Pollux.  The  palace  doors  are  barred  against 
Menelaus,  now  returned  from  the  assembly;  but  he  be¬ 
holds  Orestes  and  Pylades,  with  Hermione  between 
them,  on  the  roof.  Her  they  will  slay,  and  make  the 
palace  itself  her  and  their  funeral  pyre.  This  is  indeed 
a  dead  lock.  But  Apollo  appears  with  Helen  floating 
in  the  air.  By  his  mandate  the  crime  of  blood  is  can¬ 
celled:  all  shall  live;  and  the  remaining  years  of  Orestes, 
Electra,  and  Pylades,  pass  unclouded  by  woe. 

In  the  “Andromache”  Orestes  appears  once  more, 
but  not  as  a  leading  character.  He  might,  indeed,  were 
it  not  for  his  relatives  Menelaus  and  Hermione,  have 
been  another  person  so  named,  since  of  the  hero  of  so 
many  Greek  dramas  there  is  scarcely  a  trace  left,  except 
a  disposition  to  do  murder.  Most  people,  after  shed¬ 
ding  so  much  human  blood  as  he  has  done,  would  be 
contented  with  living  thenceforward  at  peace  with  all 
men, — even  his  rivals  in  love.  But,  on  the  contrary 
this  Argive  prince  contrives  in  the  “Andromache”  to 
put  out  of  his  way  Neoptolemus,  the  son  of  Achilles, 
for  no  better  reason  than  that  of  coveting  Hermione,  the 
Phthian  king’s  wife,  and  his  own  first  cousin.  We 
know  not  whether  Apollo  grew  weary  of  cleansing  of 
crime;  yet  to  plot  and  execute  a  capital  offence  in  the 
god’s  own  temple  at  Delphi  can  hardly  have  been  other 
than  a  severe  trial  of  even  divine  patience. 

As  this  play  appears  to  have  obtained  the  second 
prij$e  at  the  time  9f  its  representation,  besides  furnish* 


THE  TROJAN  WOMEN. 


167 


ing  the  modern  stage  with  more  than  one  tragedy  on 
the  subject,  it  must  be  credited  with  a  fair  amount  of 
interest  for  spectators.  Yet  it  may  be  doubted  whether 
it  be  equally  attractive  to  readers.  All  that  is  material 
to  be  known  of  the  plot  may  be  gathered  from  its 
representatives — the  “  Andromaque”  of  Racine,  and  the 
“Distrest  Mother”  of  Ambrose  Philips.  The  following 
scene,  the  most  effective  as  well  as  touching  in  this 
somewhat  complicated  drama,  may  afford  a  sample — 
and  it  is  a  favorable  one — of  the  original. 

The  heroine  from  whom  the  play  takes  its  title  is  in 
the  power  of  her  enemies,  Hermione,  wife  of  Neop- 
tolemus,  and  her  father  Menelaus.  Bound  with  cords, 
she  is  being  led  off  to  execution,  wiien  the  aged  Peleus, 
the  father  of  Achilles,  and  great-grandsire  of  Androm¬ 
ache’s  son,  the  little  Molossus,  enters  and  releases  her. 
In  the  part  of  Molossus,  as  in  that  of  the  infant  Orestes 
in  the  “Iphigenia  at  Aulis,”  we  have  a  specimen  of  the 
manner  in  which  Euripides  availed  himself  of  children 
in  his  scenes.  Peleus  says  to  the  guards  who  are  in 
charge  of  their  prisoner: 

“  Stand  from  her,  slaves,  that  I  may  know  who  dares 
Oppose  me,  while  I  free  her  hands  from  chains. 

.  .  .  .  Come  hither,  child; 

Beneath  my  arms  unbind  thy  mother^  chains; 

In  Phthia  will  I  nurture  thee. 

•  •  •  •  •  i  • 

Go  forward,  child,  beneath  my  sheltering  arms, 

And  thou,  unhappy  dame :  the  raging  storm 
Escaped,  in  harbor  thou  art  now  secure.” 

The  “  Helen”  can  scarcely  be  said  to  form  part  of  the 
dramatic  Tale  of  Troy,  even  although  Menelaus  and  his 
wife  are  among  its  dramatis  persona.  It  is  a  kind  of 
offshoot  from  that  world-wide  legend.  Perhaps  Euripi¬ 
des,  like  the  lyric  poet  Stesichorus,  thought  that  some 


168 


EURIPIDES. 


apology  was  due  from  him  to  “the  fairest  and  most 
loving  wife  in  Greece.”  In  his  ‘  Hecuba”  and  “  Trojan 
Women”  Helen  comes  in  for  her  full  share  of  hard 
words.  In  the  “  Orestes”  she  is  represented  as  greedy 
of  gain,  and  making  an  inventory  of  the  goods  and 
chatties  of  Electra  and  her  brother  even  before  they  were 
condemned  to  death.  In  the  play  last  surveyed,  Mene- 
laus  is  rated  for  taking  her  again  to  hi3  bosom,  instead 
of  cutting  her  throat.  The  lovely  and  liberal  matron 
of  the  Odyssey,  the  mistress  of  all  hearts  of  the  Iliad, 
had  hitherto  been  scurvily  treated  by  our  poet.  His 
apology  to  her  memory  in  the  play  bearing  her  name  is 
curious.  The  purport  of  it  is  to  show  that  there  had 
been  a  fearful  mistake  made  all  along  by  the  Greeks. 
The  good-for-nothing  Helen,  for  whom  they  shed  so 
much  blood,  was  a  phantasm,  a  double,  a  prank  of  mis¬ 
chievous  deities.  The  real  Helen  never  went  near  Ilion, 
— never  injured  any  one,  not  even  her  husband, — but 
passed  the  score  of  years  between  the  visit  of  Paris  to 
Sparta  and  the  fall  of  that  city  in  a  respectable  grass- 
widowliood  under  the  roof  of  a  pious  king  and  a  holy 
prophetess  in  Egypt.  Here  was  a  delightful  discovery  I 
A  great  capital  had  been  sacked  and  burnt  to  the  ground, 
a  whole  nation  removed  from  its  place;  Greece  nearly 
ruined;  thousands  of  valiant  knights  hurried  to  Hades; 
hundreds  of  dainty  and  delicate  women  told  off,  like  so 
many  sheep,  to  new  owners;  the  very  gods  themselves 
set  together  by  the  ears; — and  all  for  nothing — for  a 
shadow  that  dislimned  into  thin  air  the  instant  it  was 
no  longer  wanted  for  troubling  and  bewildering  man¬ 
kind  1 

It  has  been  doubted  whether  there  be  a  comic  element 
in  the  “Alcestis;”  it  is  far  easier  to  detect  one  in  the 
“  Helen.”  Menelaus  has  lost  his  ship,  and  gets  to  land 


THE  TROJAN  WOMEN. 


169 


by  clinging  to  its  keel.  He  knows  not  on  what  coast  he 
has  been  wrecked;  but  wherever  it  may  be,  he  is  not  fit 
to  present  himself  to  any  respectable  person.  He  says : 

“  I  have  nor  food  nor  raiment,  proof  of  this 
Are  these  poor  coverings;  ail  my  former  robes 
The  sea  has  swallowed.” 

He  is  scolded  by  an  old  woman,  the  portress  of  King 
Theoclymenus’s  palace,  who,  seeing  his  tattered  gar¬ 
ments,  takes  him  for  a  rogue  and  vagabond,  and  when 
told  by  him  that  he  is  a  Greek,  says,  “  The  worse  wel¬ 
come;  I  am  charged  by  my  master  to  let  none  of  that 
race  approach  his  door.”  The  trick  by  which  Helen 
and  himself  try  to  make  their  escape  from  the  island  of 
Pharos  nearly  resembles  the  one  we  have  already  met 
with  in  the  “Iphigenia  at  Tauri,” — better  executed,  in¬ 
deed,  and  more  favored  by  wind  and  wave,  for  in  this 
play  the  flight  is  effected.  The  Chorus,  however,  who 
have  been  aiding  the  fugitives  in  the  plot  by  secrecy, 
like  the  Chorus  in  the  “Iphigenia,”  incur  the  wrath  of 
the  king;  and  as  for  his  sister,  the  pious  and  prophetic 
Theono£,  she  has  been  the  chief  abettor,  and  shall  pay 
for  her  deceit  with  her  life.  Theoclymenus,  indeed,  is 
even  more  wroth  than  the  Iphigenian  Thoas  on  a  similar 
occasion,  and  perhaps  justly;  for  whereas  the  Tauric 
king  was  only  incensed  because  the  image  of  his  god¬ 
dess  was  stolen,  Theoclymenus  is  a  lover  of  Helen,  whom 
for  years  he  had  been  eager  to  make  his  wife.  This 
makes  a  material  difference  between  the  tvro  cases.  It 
might  have  been  possible  to  obtain  a  new  image  of 
Diana,  and  induce  the  goddess  to  consecrate  it  properly; 
but  in  all  the  world  there  was  only  cine  Helen. 

The  character  of  the  priestess  Theono£  bears  some 
resemblance  to  that  of  Ion.  Like  him,  she  is  truly  pure- 


170 


EURIPIDES. 


minded  and  devout:  like  him,  also,  her  ministration  at 
the  altar  is  a  labor  of  love.  Deeply  religious,  she  is  also 
tender  and  sympathizing  with  another’s  woe;  and  so 
soon  as  she  is  convinced  that  the  beautiful  Greek  who 
has  so  long  taken  sanctuary  at  the  tomb  of  Proteus  is 
the  lawful  wife  of  the  shipwrecked  stranger,  she  favors 
their  escape.  She  says, — 

“  To  piety  my  nature  and  my  will 
Incline:  myself  I  reverence,  nor  will  stain 
My  father’s  glory;  neither  will  I  grant 
That  to  my  brother  which  will  mark  my  name 
With  infamy:  for  Justice  in  my  heart 
Has  raised  her  ample  shrine ;  for  Nereus 
This  I  hold,  and  Menelaus  will  strive  to  save.” 

It  has  already  been  observed  that  the  “  Ion”  displays 
the  sympathy  of  the  poet  with  virtue  and  piety  in  man: 
the  character  of  TheonoS  shows  that  the  supposed  mi¬ 
sogynist  was  equally  impressed  with,  as  well  as  able  to 
delineate,  purity  and  piety  in  woman. 


CHAPTER  X. 

THE  CYCLOPS. 

“  This  is  as  strange  a  thing  as  e’er  I  looked  on. 

He  is  as  disproportioned  in  his  manners 
As  in  his  shape.” — “  Tempest.” 

-  We  can  hardly  be  grateful  enough  for  the  care  or  ca¬ 
price  of  the  grammarian  or  the  collector  of  old  plays  who 
has  preserved  for  us  one  sample  of  the  Greek  satyric 
drama.  Some  uncertainty  still  exists  about  the  precise 
nature  of  this  curious  appendage  to  the  tragic  Trilogy; 
but  without  such  aid  as  we  get  from  the  “  Cyclops”  of 


TBE  Of  GLOPS. 


m 

Euripides,  we  should  depend  on  fragments  or  guess¬ 
work,  if  not  be  quite  in  the  dark,  Even  with  this  single 
plank  from  the  general  wreck  of  these  after-pieces  be¬ 
fore  us,  we  look  at  the  species  through  a  veil.  The 
severe  and  solemn  iEschylus  is  recorded  to  have  been 
a  successful  composer  of  such  light  and  cheerful  pieces; 
but  this  bit  of  information  by  no  means  helps  to  clear 
up  doubts.  Sweetness  may  have  come  out  of  the  strong, 
but  of  what  kind  was  iEschylean  mirth,  or  even  relax¬ 
ation  from  gravity  ?  The  decorous  Sophocles  is  re¬ 
ported  to  have  enacted  the  part  of  Nausicaa,  and  played 
at  ball  with  the  handmaidens  of  the  princess  in  a  satyric 
story  evidently  taken  from  one  of  tne  most  beautiful 
scenes  in  the  Odyssey.  But  how  the  serene  and  majes¬ 
tic  artist  managed  to  comport  himself  under  such  cir¬ 
cumstances  we  have  still  to  wonder.  All  we  know  for 
certain  about  the  Greek  fourth  play  is,  that  it  was  in¬ 
tended  to  soothe  and  calm  down  the  feelings  of  the  spec¬ 
tators  after  they  had  been  strained  and  agitated  by  the 
prophetic  swan-song  of  Cassandra,  by  the  wail  of  Jason 
for  his  murdered  children,  by  the  scene  in  which  Ores¬ 
tes  flies  from  the  Furies,  or  that  where  in  the  noble  An¬ 
tigone  and  the  loving  Hsemon  are  clasped  together  in 
their  death-embrace. 

Such  relaxation  of  excited  feeling  was  in  the  true 
spirit  of  Greek  art  in  its  best  days,  which  required  even 
in  the  hurricane  of  tragic  passion  a  moderating  element, 
and  the  means  of  returning  to  composure.  Let  not, 
however,  the  English  reader  imagine  that,  although  the 
satyric  drama  was  designed  to  send  home  the  audience 
in  a  tranquil  and  even  cheerful  mood,  it  bore  any  re¬ 
semblance  to  farce,  much  less  to  burlesque.  Welcome 
as  parodies  of  scenes  or  verses  from  “the  lofty  grave 
tragedians”  were  to  Athenian  ears,  skilful  as  the  comio 


EtIRlPiDM 


its 

writers  were  in  such  travesties,  a  Greek  audience  in  thd 
time  of  Euripides  would  have  hurled  sticks,  stones,  and 
hard-shelled  fruit  at  the  buffoons  who  committed  such 
profanation.  “  Hamlet,”  if  performed  at  Athens,  Would 
not  have  been  followed  by  “  a  popular  farce”!  Perhaps 
there  is  no  better  definition  of  the  satyric  drama  than 
this — and  it  is  one  of  ancient  date — it  was  “a  sportive 
tragedy.”  It  was  not  written  by  comic,  but  always  by 
tragic  poets :  it  was  in  some  measure  a  performance  of 
“state  and  ancientry.”  Seldom,  if  ever,  was  it  acted 
apart  from  tragedy.  It  may  have  been  a  shadow  or 
reminiscence  of  the  primeval  age  of  stage-plays,  when 
the  actors  were  all  strollers  and  the  theatre  was  a  cart. 
Prone  to  change  in  their  favor  or  affection  to  their  rulers 
— ostracizing  or  crowning  them  as  the  whim  of  the  mo¬ 
ment  suggested — the  Athenians  were  very  conservative 
in  their  opinions  on  art,  and  so  may  have  chosen  to  re¬ 
tain  a  sample  of  the  rude  entertainments  of  Thespis, 
even  in  the  “most  high  and  palmy  state”  of  the  tragic 
drama.  The  satyric  dramatis  persona  were  grave  and 
dignified  personages, — demigods  and  heroes,  kings  and 
prophets,  councillors  and  warriors, — who  spoke  a  dia¬ 
logue,  as  Ulysses  does  in  the  “Cyclops,”  only  a  little 
less  grave  than  that  of  the  preceding  tragedies,  per¬ 
chance  a  little  more  ironical  than  the  buskin  would  have 
allowed.  To  make  wild  laughter  was  the  function  of 
the  comedian;  to  excite  cheerfulness  rather  than  mirth 
was  probably  the  function  of  these  appendages. 

In  a  city  where  the  Homeric  poems  were  sung  or  said 
in  the  streets,  the  story  of  Ulysses  and  the  Cyclops  was 
as  familiar  to  the  ears  of  gentle  and  simple  as  “house¬ 
hold  words.”  The  plot  of  it  and  some  of  the  humor 
are  Homer’s.  But  the  one  eyed  giant  of  the  Odyssey 
is  a  solitary  bachelor,  and  the  Chorus  of  Satyrs,  indis- 


THE  CYCLOPS. 


173 

jiensable  for  the  piece,  was  a  later  invention.  In  Ho¬ 
meric  days,  Sicily  and  southern  Italy  were  the  wonder¬ 
land  of  th«  eastern  Greeks.  Like  Prospero’s  island, 
they  were  thought  to  harbor  very  strange  beasts.  In 
Sicily  dwelt  a  band  of  gigantic  brethren,  who  lived, 
while  they  had  nothing  better  to  eat,  on  the  milk, 
cheese,  and  mutton  supplied  by  their  flocks,  but  who 
were  always  glad  to  mend  their  fare  by  devouring 
strangers  unlucky  enough  to  come  into  their  neighbor¬ 
hood.  This  ill  luck  befell  Ulysses  and  his  ship’s  crew 
—sole  survivors  of  the  Ithacan  flotilla — on  their  return 
from  Troy.  Contrary  winds  had  driven  them  far  from 
their  course:  want  of  water  compelled  them  to  land  on 
the  Sicilian  shore.  In  quest  of  spring  or  brook,  they  go 
to  the  cavern  of  the  Cyclops.  He,  fortunately  for  them, 
is  not  just  then  at  home;  but  his  servants,  Silenus  and 
the  Satyrs,  are  within,  and  after  a  short  parley  with 
their  unexpected  visitors,  they  consent  to  supply  their 
need,  and  even  to  sell  the  Greek  captain  some  of 
their  master’s  goods,  tempted  by  the  quite  irresistible 
bribe  of  a  flask  of  excellent  wine.  It  may  be  as  well 
to  say  at  once  what  had  brought  such  strange  domes¬ 
tics  into  the  Cyclops’  country,  and  thus  the  reader  will 
see  why  they  were  so  glad  to  taste  wine  again,  and 
why  they  acted  dishonestly  in  selling  the  lambs  and 
kids.  The  Satyrs  had  lost  their  lord  and  master  Bac¬ 
chus,  who  had  been  carried  off  by  Tyrrhenian  pirates. 
So  they  left  their  homes  in  Arcadian  highland  or  Thes¬ 
salian  woods,  and  went  to  sea  in  quest  of  him,  lovers 
of  the  wine-cask  as  they  were.  Probably  these  hairy 
and  unkempt  folks  were  imperfectly  versed  in  naviga¬ 
tion,  or  they  may  have  had  a  drunken  steersman,  or 
the  winds  may  have  been  as  perverse  as  they  were  to 
Ulysses.  In  one  respect,  either  their  hideousness  or 


174 


mRIPlDM 


their  years—Silenus,  at  least,  was  advanced  in  life- 
may  have  befriended  them,  for  Polyphemus  does  not 
eat  them  raw  or  broiled  on  the  embers,  but  keeps  them 
in  his  cave  for  the  service  of  his  dairy  and  his  kine.  At 
last  Polyphemus  enters;  and  now  we  can  imagine  some 
excitement  on  the  part  of  the  junior  Athenians,  sedate 
smiles  on  that  of  their  elders,  and  even  a  scream  or  two 
from  the  place  where  the  women  were  packed  together. 
No  known  art  or  device,  we  maybe  sure,  was  neglected 
by  the  managers  in  making  up  the  giant  for  his  part.  If 
Ulysses  were  of  the  usual  stature  of  Greek  performers, 
Polyphemus  must  have  worn  far  higher  soles  and  loftier 
head-gear  than  the  Ithacan  king.  The  monster  must 
been  at  least  by  “the  altitude  of  a  cliopine”  taller  than 
his  guest.  A  yawning  mask  doubtless  aggravated  the 
terror  of  his  visage ;  his  voice  must  have  been  like  that 
of  an  irate  bull ;  and  his  single  eye  as  big  as  an  ordi¬ 
nary-sized  plate,  and  as  red  as  a  live  coal.  The  Satyrs 
may  have  reminded  their  beholders  of  the  well-known 
features  of  Socrates;  nor  could  the  philosopher  have 
been  justly  angry  at  a  resemblance  that  he  himself  had 
pointed  out.  Polyphemus  is  too  stupid  to  be  either 
“witty  in  himself  or  a  cause  of  wit  in  others;”  accord¬ 
ingly,  such  comic  business  as  there  is  in  the  piece 
devolves  on  Sileuus  and  his  companions,  who  relieve 
gigantic  dulness  by  quips  and  cranks,  much  as  the  cele¬ 
brated  Jack  relieves  the  stolidity  of  Blunderbore  by 
some  friendly  conversation  before  he  rips  him  up. 

The  Cyclops  had  been  absent  on  ./Etna,  hunting  with 
his  dogs.  Like  King  Lear  on  his  return  from  the  chase, 
he  calls  out  lustily  for  his  dinner,  after  a  previous  in¬ 
quiry  about  his  lambs,  ewes,  and  cheese-baskets.  He 
discerns  that  something  unusual  has  taken  place  during 
his  absence,  and  threatens  to  beat  Silenus  until  he  rains 


THE  CYCLOPS . 


175 


tears  unless  he  answers  promptly.  Next  his  eye  lights 
on  the  strangers,  and  also  on  something  still  more  irri¬ 
tating  to  him  as  a  grazier: 

u  What  is  this  crowd  I  see  beside  the  stalls? 

Outlaws  or  thieves?  for  near  my  cavern-home 
I  see  my  young  lambs  coupled  two  by  two 
With  willow-bands:  mixed  with  my  cheeses  lie 
Their  implements:  and  this  old  fellow  here 
Has  his  bald  head  broken  with  3tripes.”  * 

The  shrewd  but  perfidious  Silenus  has  inflicted  these 
stripes  on  himself  in  order  to  make  his  story  of  being 
robbed  credible  to  his  master — a  device  of  a  similar  kind 
to  that  which  Bardolph  says  caused  him  to  blush. 

“  Sil.  Ahmel 

I  have  been  beaten  till  I  burn  with  fever. 

Cyc.  By  whom?  who  laid  his  fist  upon  your  head. 

Sil.  Those  men,  because  I  would  not  suffer  them 
To  steal  your  goods. 

Cyc.  Did  not  the  rascals  know 

I  am  a  god,  sprung  from  the  race  of  heaven? 

Sil.  I  told  them  so,  but  they  bore  off  your  things. 

And  ate  the  cheese  in  spite  of  all  I  said, 

And  carried  out  the  lambs.” 

And  inasmuch  as  this  capital  felony  was,  he  alleged, 
accompanied  by  threats  of  personal  violence  to  Poly¬ 
phemus  himself,  he  not  unreasonably  flies  into  a  terrible 
passion,  and  hastens  to  enforce  Cyclopian  law  on  the 
spoilers  of  his  goods: 

“  Cycl.  In  truth?  nay,  haste,  and  place  in  order  quickly 
The  cooking-knives,  and  heap  upon  the  hearth. 

And  kindle  it,  a  great  fagot  of  wood ; 

As  soon  as  they  are  slaughtered  they  shall  fill 
My  belly,  broiling  warm  from  the  live  coals, 

■-■yw.  ■  ...  ■  ■  '  '  ■  •  — ;  1 

*  Shelley’s  translation  of  the  “  Cyclops”  has  been  followed  In 
each  extract  from  the  piece. 


176 


EURIPIDES . 


Or  boiled  and  seethed  within  the  bubbling  caldron. 

I  am  quite  sick  of  the  wild  mountain-game, 

Of  stags  and  lions  I  have  gorged  enough, 

And  I  grow  hungry  for  the  flesh  of  men.” 

In  vain  Ulysses  assures  Polyphemus  that  he  has  never 
laid  hands  on  Silenus ;  that  he  purchased  the  lambs  for 
wine,  honestly  as  he  thought,  and  that  the  lying  old 
Satyr’s  nose  will  vouch  for  the  exchange  and  barter.  All 
was  done 

“  By  mutual  compact,  without  force; 

There  is  no  word  of  truth  in  all  he  says, 

For  slyly  he  was  selling  all  your  store.’ 

But  as  well  might  a  poacher  accused  of  snaring  hares  or 
trapping  foxes  have  pleaded  innocence  before  that  wor¬ 
shipful  justice,  Squire  Western,  as  Ulysses  expect  his 
plain  tale  to  put  down  the  evidence,  confirmed  by  the 
very  hard  swearing,  of  Silenus.  The  Chorus,  indeed, 
following  its  proper  function  of  mediator  between  “con¬ 
tending  opposites,”  assures  the  Cyclops  that  the  stranger 
tells  the  simple  truth,  and  that  they  saw  Silenus  giving 
the  lambs  to  him.  “  You  lie!”  exclaims  the  giant;  “this 
old  fellow  is  juster  than  Rhadamantlius:  I  believe  his 
story.”  Now,  for  a  few  minutes,  curiosity  prevails  over 
hunger  for  the  flesh  of  men,  and  Polyphemus  inquires 
about  the  race,  adventures,  life,  and  conversation  of  the 
intruders  on  his  cavern.  Ulysses,  carefully  concealing 
his  real  name,  gives  the  required  information.  He  is 
one  of  the  chiefs  who  have  taken  Troy :  he  is  on  his 
return  home  to  Ithaca:  not  choice,  but  tempests,  have 
brought  him  to  this  land.  “Moreover,”  he  adds,  “if 
you  kill  and  eat  me  or  my  comrades,  you  will  be  very 
ungrateful.  We  are  all  pious  worshippers  of  your  *  great 
father’  Neptune.  We  have  built  him  many  temples  in 
Greece.  Much  have  we  endured  by  war  and  land  and 


THE  CYCLOPS . 


177 


sea,  and  it  will  be  very  hard  on  us,  after  escaping  so 
many  perils,  to  be  now  roasted  or  boiled  for  a  supper  to 
Neptune’s  son.” 

The  reply  of  Polyphemus  is  just  what  might  have 
been  looked  for  from  such  a  sensual  barbarian.  It  is 
unfilial,  and  even  blasphemous.  “A  fig,” he  cries,  “for 
your  temples  and  their  gods.  The  wise  man  knows  of 
nothing  worth  worshipping  except  wealth.” 

“  AH  other  things  are  a  pretence  and  boast. 

What  are  my  father’s  ocean  promontories, 

The  sacred  rocks  whereon  he  dwells,  to  me? 

Strangers,  I  laugh  to  scorn  Jove’s  thunderbolt: 

I  know  not  that  his  strength  is  more  than  mine; 

As  to  the  rest  I  care  not.” 

“  Jupiter  may  send  snow  or  rain  or  wind  as  he  list.  I 
have  a  weather-proof  cave,  plenty  of  fuel  and  milk; 
my  larder  is  ever  provided  with  a  haunch  of  lion  or  a 
fat  calf;  and  so  that  I  have  a  good  crop  of  grass  in  yon¬ 
der  meadows,  I  and  my  cattle  care  alike  for  your  Jupi¬ 
ter.”  And  then  he  winds  up  with  a  declaration  of  his 
purpose  to  have  a  good  dinner: 

“  I  well  know 

The  wise  man’s  only  Jupiter  is  this, 

To  eat  and  drink  during  his  little  day, 

And  give  himself  no  care.  And  as  for  those 
Who  complicate  with  laws  the  life  of  man, 

I  freely  give  them  tears  for  their  reward. 

I  will  not  cheat  my  soul  of  its  delight, 

Or  hesitate  in  dining  upon  you-” 

Clearly,  after  hearing  these  hospitable  intentions, 
Ulysses  will  need  all  the  cunning  for  which  he  was 
famed.  “  This,”  he  thinks,  “  is  by  far  the  worst  scrape 
I  ever  was  in.  Very  near  was  I  to  death  when  I  en¬ 
tered  Troy  town  as  a  spy,  and  when  I  cajoled  Queen 
Hecuba  to  let  me  out  of  it.  I  just  missed  being  trans- 


178 


EUBIPIDES. 


fixed  by  Philoctetes  in  Lemnos  by  one  of  bis  poisoned 
arrows,  when  Machaon,  that  skilful  surgeon,  was  many 
leagues  away  from  me,  and  when,  even  if  he  had  been 
at  hand,  he  could  not  perhaps  have  counteracted  the  old 
centaur’s  venom.  ‘  About  my  brain,’  I  must  not 
faint,  but  contrive  to  foil  this  brute’s  designs.  If  I  can 
not,  better  had  it  been  for  me  to  have  died  by  the  hand 
of  the  mad  Ajax,  for  then  I  should  have  been  decently 
buried  by  the  Greeks,  and  Penelope  have  known  what 
became  of  me;  whereas,  if  I  am  to  go  down  this  mon¬ 
ster’s  ‘insatiate  maw,’  she  may  go  on  for  ten  years 
more  weeping  and  weaving,  and  after  all  be  forced  to 
marry  one  of  her  suitors.  Now,  if  ever,  Pallas  Athend 
befriend  me.” 

The  stage  is  cleared,  and  the  Chorus  sing  appropriate 
but  not  cheerful  stanzas,  with  reference  to  present  cir¬ 
cumstances  : 

“  The  Cyclops  iEtnean  is  cruel  and  bold, 

He  murders  the  strangers 
That  sit  on  his  hearth, 

And  dreads  no  avengers 
To  rise  from  the  earth. 

He  roasts  the  men  before  they  are  cold, 

He  snatches  them  broiling  from  the  coal. 

And  from  the  caldron  pulls  them  whole, 

And  minces  their  flesh  and  gnaws  their  bone 
With  his  cursed  teeth  till  all  be  gone.” 

Ulysses  re-enters  •  he  has  been  surveying  the  Cyclo- 
pian  larder  and  kitchen,  and  is  as  terrified  by  the  sight 
of  their  contents  as  Fatima  was  when  she  rushed  out  of 
Bluebeard’s  chamber  of  horrors.  He  has  seen  Polyphe¬ 
mus  providing  for  his  own  comforts.  He  kindles  a 
!&ge  fire,— 

Casting  on  the  broad  hearth 
The  knotty  limbs  of  an  enormous  oak, 

Three  wagon-loads  at  least.” 


TM8  CYCLOPS. 


m 

fie  spreads  upon  the  ground  a  couch  of  pine-leaves:  he 
milks  his  cows, — 

“  And  fills  a  bowl 

Three  cubits  wide  and  four  in  depth,  as  much 
As  would  contain  three  amphorae,  and  bound  it 
With  ivy.” 

He  puts  on  the  fire  a  pot  to  boil,  and  makes  red-hot  the 
points  of  sundry  spits,  and,  when  all  is  ready,  he  seizes 
two  of  the  Ithacans, — 

“And  killed  them  In  a  measured  kind  of  manner; 

For  he  flung  one  against  the  brazen  rivets 
Of  the  huge  caldron,  and  caught  the  other 
By  the  foot’s  tendon,  and  knocked  out  his  brains 
Upon  the  sharp  edge  of  the  craggy  stone.” 

One  he  boiled,  the  other  he  roasted,  while  Ulysses, 

“With  the  tears  raining  from  his  eyes, 

Stood  near  the  Cyclops,  ministering  to  him.” 

But  while  waiting  at  table,  a  happy  thought  presents 
itself  to  Ulysses.  “If  I  can  but  make  him  drunk 
enough,  then  I  can  deal  with  him.”  He  plies  him  well 
with  Maronian  wine  at  dinner;  but  Polyphemus  is  as 
yet  “  na  that  fou”  to  fall  into  the  trap,  He  is  still 
sober  enough  to  remember  that  his  brother-giants  may 
relish  a  cheerful  glass  no  less  than  himself.  They  in¬ 
habit  a  village  on  iEtna  not  far  off,  and  he  will  go  and 
invite  them  to  share  his  Bacchic  drink.  The  Chorus 
advise  Ulysses  to  walk  with  him,  and  pitch  him  over  a 
precipice,  as  he  is  somewhat  unsteady  on  his  legs. 
“  That  will  never  do,”  responds  the  sagacious  Ithacan. 
“  I  have  a  far  more  subtle  device.  I  will  appeal  to  his 
appetite:  tell  him  how  unwise  it  were  to  summon  part¬ 
ners  for  his  revelry.  Why  not  prolong  his  pleasure  by 


muiMDMS. 


keeping  this  particular  Maronian  for  his  own  sole  use?” 
The  Cyclops  presently  returns,  singing — 

*'  Ha!  ha!  I  am  full  of  wine, 

Heavy  with  the  joy  divine, 

With  the  young  feast  oversated; 

Like  a  merchant’s  vessel  freighted 
To  the  water’s  edge,  my  crop 
Is  laden  to  the  gullet’s  top. 

The  fresh  meadow-grass  of  spring 
Tempts  me  forth  thus  wandering 
To  my  brothers  on  the  mountains, 

Who  shall  share  the  wine’s  sweet  fountains. 

Bring  the  cask,  O  stranger,  bring!” 

He  is  diverted  from  his  purpose  by  Ulysses ;  and  for 
once  Silenus  acts  a  friendly  part  to  him  by  asking  his 
master,  “What  need  have  you  of  pot-companions? 
stay  at  home.”  Indeed  the  advice  proceeds  from  a  de¬ 
sign  to  filch  some  of  the  wine  himself — an  impossibility 
if  the  cask  is  borne  off  to  the  village,  where  there  will 
be  so  many  eyes — single  ones  indeed — upon  him.  So 
it  is  agreed  that  the  giant-brothers  be  kept  in  the  dark, 
and  quaff  their  bowls  of  milk,  while  Polyphemus  drinks 
deep  potations  of  Maron  alone.  The  Greek  stranger 
has  now  so  ingratiated  himself  with  his  savage  host 
that  the  latter  condescends  to  ask  his  name,  and  to 
promise  to  eat  him  last,  in  token  of  his  gratitude  for  his 
drink  and  good  counsel.  “  My  name,”  says  Ulysses, 
“  is  Nobody.”  With  this  information  the  Sicilian  Cali¬ 
ban  is  content;  and  with  the  exception  that  Silenus 
teases  him  by  putting  the  flagon  out  of  his  reach,  with 
the  above-mentioned  felonious  intent,  all  goes  merry  as 
a  marriage-bell.  Ulysses,  now  again  cup-bearer,  plies 
him  so  well,  that  the  “  poor  monster”  sees  visions*— 

“  The  throne  of  Jove, 

And  the  clear  congregation  of  the  Gods”— 


Tm  OT6LOP3. 


m 

and  in  the  end  drops  off  into  slumber  profound  as 
Christopher  Sly’s. 

Now  comes  the  dramatic  retribution.  The  trunk  of 
an  olive-tree  has  been  sharpened  to  a  point,  is  heated 
in  the  fire,  and  thrust  by  Ulysses  and  his  surviving 
companions  into  the  eye  of  the  insensible  giant.  The 
Chorus,  indeed,  had  promised  to  lend  a  hand  in  this 
operation,  for  they  are  anxious  to  be  off  in  quest  of 
their  liege-lord  Bacchus.  But  their  courage  fails  them 
at  the  proper  moment — some  have  sprained  ankles, 
others  have  dust  in  their  eyes,  others  weakness  of 
spine.  All  they  can  or  will  do — and  this  service  is 
truly  operatic  in  its  kind — is  to  sing  a  cheerful  and 
encouraging  accompaniment  to  the  boring-out  of  the 
eye:, 

“  Hasten  and  thrust, 

And  parch  up  to  dust, 

The  eye  of  the  beast 
Who  feeds  on  his  guest; 

Burn  and  blind 
The  M tnean  hind ; 

Scoop  and  draw, 

But  beware  lest  he  claw 
Your  limbs  near  his  maw.” 

The  last  scene  of  the  “  Cyclops”  has  to  the  reader  an 
appearance  of  being  either  imperfectly  preserved  or 
originally  hurried  over.  It  may  be  that,  not  having 
the  action  before  us,  we  miss  some  connecting  dumb- 
show.  In  the  Odyssey  the  escape  of  Utysses  and  his 
crew  is  effected  with  much  difficulty,  and  great  risk  to 
their  chief:  in  this  satyric  play  they  get  out  of  the 
cave  quickly  as  well  as  safely,  though  its  owner  says 
that — 

“  Standing  at  the  outlet, 

He’ll  bar  the  way  and  catch  them  as  they  pass;’* 


m 


titTMPtMs. 


but  either  they  creep  under  his  huge  legs,  like  so  Many 
Gullivers  in  Brobdingnag,  or  he  is  a  very  inefficient 
doorkeeper-drink  and  pain  seemingly  having  ren¬ 
dered  him  as  incapable  of  hearing  as  of  sight.  Indeed 
Polyphemus,  blind  and  despairing,  is  the  only  sufferer 
in  this  flight  of  the  Ithacans.  In  striking  at  them  he 
beats  the  air,  or  cracks  his  skull  against  the  rocky  wall. 
The  Chorus  taunt  and  misguide  him.  “Are  these 
villains  on  my  right  hand?”  “No,  on  your  left,” — 
whereupon  he  dashes  at  vacancy,  and  cries,  “  O  woe  on 
woe,  I  have  broken  my  head!”  “  Did  you  fall  into  the 
fire  when  drunk?”  ask  the  mocking  Chorus,  who  had 
been  witnesses  of  the  whole  transaction.  “’Twas 
Nobody  destroyed  me.”  “Then  no  one  is  to  blame.’* 
“  I  tell  you,  varlets  as  you  are,  Nobody  blinded  me.” 
“  Then  you  are  not  blind.”  “  Where  is  that  accursed 
Nobody?”  “Nowhere,  Cyclops.”  But  at  last  the  secret 
comes  out.  “Detested  wretch,  where  are  you?”  roars 
the  baffled  monster.  The  wretch  replies; 

“  Far  from  you, 

1  keep  with  care  this  body  of  Ulysses. 

Cych  What  do  you  say?  You  proffer  a  new  name  1 
Ulys.  My  father  named  me  so :  and  I  have  taken 
A  full  revenge  for  your  unnatural  feast: 

I  should  have  done  ill  to  burn  down  Troy, 

And  not  revenged  the  murder  of  my  comrades. 

Cycl.  Ai,  Ai !  the  ancient  oracle  is  accomplished ; 

It  said  that  I  should  have  my  eyesight  blinded 
By  you  coming  from  Troy,  yet  it  foretold 
That  you  should  pay  the  penalty  for  this, 

By  wandering  long  over  the  homeless  sea.” 

The  humor  of  thi3  after-piece  may  not  seem  to 
English  readers  of  the  first  quality,  and  the  quibble 
on  Nobody  and  Nowhere  to  be  far  beneath  the  level  of 
the  jeu  dt  mots  in  modern  burlesque.  But  let  them 


TEE  CYCLOPS. 


188 


not  therefore  look  down  on  Ancient  Classics.  Rome 
was  not  built  in  a  day.  Life  is  short,  but  the  art  of 
Punning  is  long.  Even  Aristophanes  came  not  up  to 
the  mark  of  Thomas  Hood.  The  world,  it  must  be  re¬ 
membered,  was  comparatively  young  when  Euripides 
wrote  his  “  Cyclops” — much  younger  when  Homer  told 
the  tale  of  Polyphemus  and  Ulysses.  Moreover,  a 
bucolical  monster  was  not  a  person  to  throw  away  the 
cream  of  jests  upon.  Probably  he  never  quite  com¬ 
prehended  the  point  of  Nobody ,  though  in  after-hours, 
and  in  the  tedium  of  blindness,  disabled  from  hunting 
the  lion  and  the  bear  of  Mount  iEtna,  he  must  have 
often  pondered  on  his  unlucky  encounter  with  a  crafty 
Greek.  Also  it  should  be  borne  in  mind  that  the  real 
fun  and  frolic  of  the  Athenians  was  reserved  for  the 
comic  drama.  There,  indeed,  it  was  as  extravagant, 
satyrical,  and  even  boisterous  as  we  can  imagine,  or 
spectators  could  desire.  Possibly  Euripides,  grave, 
taciturn,  and  tender  in  his  disposition,  was  not  the  best 
representative  of  this  species  of  drama.  That  there  was 
in  him  some  latent  humor,  some  disposition  to  slide 
out  of  the  tragic  into  the  comic  vein,  has  already  been 
observed  in  the  sketch  of  his  “  Alcestis.”  With  all  its 
shortcomings,  the  “  Cyclops”  is  the  sole  contemporary 
clue  wo  have  to  the  nature  of  the  fourth  member  of  the 
usual  batch  of  plays,  and  so,  with  Sanclio,  we  must 
“  be  thankful  for  it,  and  not  look  the  gift  horse  too 
closely  in  the  mouth.” 


THE  END. 


BATTLE  ECHOES. 


The  glorious  progress  of  the  fight  for  good, 
books  at  low  prices  is  best  indicated  by  numerous 
letters  from  those  best  qualified  to  know  what  is 
accomplished— those  who  buy  the  books. 

“  Books  came  all  right  and  were  perfectly  satisfactory.  I  am  de¬ 
lighted  with  the  '*  English  People.”  Elzevir  edition  It  is  a  gem ;  foe 
beauty  of  binding,  clearness  of  type,  handiness  of  form,  and  cheap¬ 
ness  of  price,  it  surpasses  anything  I  have  seen.’*— Rev.  D.  T.  McCltt- 
mont,  Olean,  N.  Y. 

'•  God  bless  and  prosper  you .  Your  manly,  straightforward  manner 
of  doing  business,  and  your  herculean  eff  orts  to  redeem  the  past,  are 
worthy  of  you  and  more  than  worthy  the  cause  you  so  pertinaciously 
seek  to  redeem.”— Mark  H.  Forscutt,  St.  Joseph,  Mo. 

“  I  am  an  old  man  and  have  more  books  than  I  can  find  time  to 
read  it  I  should  live  fifty  years,  but  I  can't  resist  the  temptation  to 
order  a  few  more.  I  inclose  $3.23.  Send  without  delay,  and  oblige  one 
who  wishes  you  great  success.”— John  W.  Riddle,  Fowler,  Ill. 

‘‘We  have  pleasure  in  again  calling  attention  to  this  marvel  of 
publishing  enterprise,  the  Elzevir  Library.  It  is  indeed,  in  the  best 
sense,  a  magazine,  or  store  house  of  valuable  and  independent 
literary  treasures,  the  price  of  which  being  no  indication  whatever 
of  their  interest  or  worth.”— Dominion  Churchman ,  Toronto,  Canada. 

“  No  man  has  done  more  to  place  before  the  people,  at  a  price 
which  no  one  is  too  poor  to  pay,  the  best  works  of  the  best  men  of  all 
ages,  than  has  John  B.  Alden,  of  New  York.  In  his  efforts  to  eradi¬ 
cate  cheap  and  worthless  literature  by  supplying  the  masses  with 
the  most  valuable  reading  matter  at  an  even  lower  price,  he  has  met 
and  conquered  opposition  and  reverses.”— Democrat,  Watkins,  N.  Y, 

“ 4  Esteemed  Friend  ’—But,  indeed,  I  need  not  have  quoted  that 
appellative,  for  I  esteem  you  one  of  the  best  friends  wife,  self,  and 
three  little  hopefuls  have,  and  heartily  hope  you  may  live  long  and 
prosper.  This  is  a  poor  place  to  make  money  in.  Had  I  been  able  to 
score  a  surplus  I  would  have  sent  you  a  standing  order  to  send  me 
everything  you  should  publish  ;  hope  to  do  so  yet.  I  carry  around  a 
Catalogue  to  keep  me  reminded  of  you  -.—young  man  in  next  room  is 
looking  it  over  at  this  momenfc.-ryou  will  hear  from  him .  Education 
for  the  out&ide-of -school  population  Is  a  problem  I  have  pondered 
long  and  earnestly  j  you  are  doing  better,  a  thousand  times,  by  prac¬ 
tically  and  measurably  solving  it.”— L.  L.  D.,  Philadelphia,  Pa.  (1)  j 


THE  PIONEER  BOY 


YOUNG-  PEOPLE’S  LIFE  OP  ABRAHAM  LINCOLN :  OR 

From  Pioneer  Home  to  the  White  House.  By  William  M.  Thayer- 
With  Eulogy  by  Hon.  George  Bancroft.  Large  12mo,  469  pages, 
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man  whose  history  has  honored  the  human  race, 
ever  won  his  way  from  a  lower  ground  of  dis¬ 
advantage  or  reached  a  higher  pinnacle  of  fame. 
Aided  by  no  “luck”  or  “chance”  in  all  his  ca¬ 
reer,  but  winning  every  round  of  the  ladder  he 
climbed  by  manly  effort  ;  always  the  friend,  not 
only  of  his  race  at  large,  but  of  his  nearest 
neighbors  especially  ;  always  the  peer  of  the 
greatest  men  of  the  nation  or  the  world,  with 
whom  he  met,  and  never  above  being  the  person¬ 
al  friend  of  the  poorest  soldier-boy  of  the  army, 
or  of  the  widow,  whose  cause  wanted  pleading, 
and  with  no  expectation  of  recompense  ;  the 
story  of  his  life  is  one  of  the  noblest  and  most  in¬ 
spiring  which  a  biographer  could  be  called  upon 
to  write.  How  well  Mr.  Thayer  has  written, 
the  immense  sale  which  the  book  has  already  at¬ 
tained,  and  the  universal  encomiums  of  the  press, 
attest. 

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very  beautiful,  large,  clear  type,  and  has  here¬ 
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$1.75,  now  reduced  as  above  indicated.  e>) 


From  LOG  CABIN  TO  THE 
WHITE  HOUSE, 

TODNG  PEOPLE’S  LIFE  OF  JAMES  A.  GARFIELD :  OR 
From  Log  Cabin  to  the  White  House.  By  William  M.  Thayer. 
With  Eulogy  by  Hon.  James  Gk  Blaine.  Large  12mo,  483  pages. 
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way  a  fit  companion  volume  to  his  Lives  of 
Washington  and  Lincoln,  and  richly  deserves  a 
place  in  the  library  of  every  American  youth 
who  has  an  ambition  to  rise  in  the  world.  It 
makes  a  very  handsome  volume,  uniform  in  all 
respects  with  the  Life  of  Lincoln,  and  has  hereto¬ 
fore  been  sold  by  subscription  at  the  price  of 
$1.75. 

“It  possesses  a  peculiar  fascination  and  interest.  A  better  book 
for  the  young  was  never  printed.”— The  Christian,  London. 


“  A  better  book  it  would  be  Impossible  for  any  one  to  And  who  Is 
Interested  In  awakening  the  powers  and  stirring  up  the  ambition  of 
the  young.”— Graphic,  London. 


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Review. 

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people  of  a  larger  growth,  too.”—  Guardian,  New  Castle,  Pa. 

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It  will  fascinate  old  and  young  alike.”— News,  Manchester,  N.  H. 

“A  fine  model  for  American  Youth.”— Zion’s  Herald,  Boston. 


“  Should  find  its  way  Into  every  house  in  our  land.”— Times,  Bel¬ 
lows  Falls,  Vt. 

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the  book  that  prudent  teachers  and  heads  of  schools  will  select  M 
one  especially  fit  for  prizes.”— Literary  World,  London.  (8) 


SEEKERS  AFTER  GOD 


SEEKERS  AFTER  GOD.  BY  CANON  F.  W.  FARRAR. 

Large  12mo,  Long  Primer  type,  leaded,  306  pages.  Cloth,  40  ctg. 

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rank,  in  accuracy  and  profundity  of  scholarship,  and 
grace  and  eloquence  of  language.  The  following  are 
selections  from  its  table  of  contents  : 


Family  and  Early  Years  of 
Seneca. 

Education  of  Seneca. 

Roman  Society. 

Rome  under  Tiberius. 

Reign  of  Caius. 

Reign  of  Claudius. 

Banishment  of  Seneca. 

Seneca  in  Exile. 

Seneca’s  Philosophy  Gives  Way. 
Seneca’s  Recall  from  Exile. 
Agrippina,  Mother  of  Nero. 

Nero  and  his  Tutor. 


Beginning  of  the  End. 

Death  of  Seneca. 

Seneca  and  St.  PauL 
Resemblances  to  Scripture. 

Life  of  Epictetus. 

Views  of  Epictetus. 

“  Manual  ”  and  “  Fragments.” 
Discourses  of  Epictetus. 
Education  of  Marcus  Aurelius. 
Life  and  Thoughts  of  Marcus 
Aurelius. 

“Meditations”  of  Marcus  Aure¬ 
lius. 


THE  HERMITS. 


THE  HERMITS.  BY  REV.  CHARLES  KINGSLEY, 

author  of  “  Hypatia,”  “  Westward,  Ho,”  etc.  Large  12mo,  Small 
Pica  type,  leaded.  840  pages.  Cloth,  40  cts. 


Charles  Kingsley  is  so  well-known  as  a  writer, 
interesting,  conscientious,  and  scholarly,  that  it  is 
unnecessary  to  more  than  indicate  the  general  character 
of  this  work,  a  mixture  of  biography,  history,  myth, 
and  eloquent  Christian  discourse.  The  following  are 
principal  subjects  of  the  various  chapters: 


Introduction. 

Saint' Paul,  the  First  Hermit 
Hilarion. 

The  Hermits  of  Asia. 

Simeon  Stylites. 

St.  Severinus. 

St.  Malo. 

St.  Guthlac, 

Auclmltes, 


Saint  Antony. 

Sayings  of  Antony. 
Arsenins. 

Basil. 

The  Hermits  of  Europe. 
The  Celtic  Hermits. 

St.  Columba. 

St,  Godrio  of  Finchale, 


Cyclopedia  of  Poetry. 


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or  to  whatever  portion  you  may  possess.  It 
will  show:  Contents,  Titles,  First  Lines,  Charac¬ 
ters,  Subjects  and  Quotations,  making  the  most 
complete  guide  to  the  world’s  choicest 
poetical  literature,  ever  published. 


40  VOLUMES. 


See  JList  of  Authors  on  Next  Page. 


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HUME’S  ENGLAND. 

Choice  IAbrary  Edition. 

HISTORY  OP  ENGLAND,  FROM  THE  INVASION  OP 
Julius  Caesar  to  the  Revolution  of  1688.  By  David  Hume.  A 
new  edition  with  the  author’s  latest  corrections  and  Improve¬ 
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No  handsomer  edition,  of  Hume’s  mag¬ 
nificent  history  has  ever  been  published. 
I  determined  to  show  bookbuyers,  book¬ 
sellers,  and  publishers,  all,  by  a  grand 
example,  that  IT  IS  possible  to  make 
books  of  the  very  highest  typographical 
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on  both  sides,  on  the  most  momentous  questions  which  have  agitated 
England,  as  well  as  the  general  simplicity,  uniform  clearness,  and 
occasional  pathos,  of  his  story,  must  forever  command  the  admiration 
of  mankind.”— Foreign  and  Colonial  Review. 

“It  is  Hume  who  is  read  by  every  one.  Hume  is  the  historian 
whose  views  and  opinions  insensibly  become  our  own.  He  is  re¬ 
spected  and  admired  by  the  most  enlightened  reader ;  he  is  the  guide 
and  philosopher  of  the  ordinary  reader,  to  whose  mind,  on  all  the 
topics  connected  with  our  history,  he  entirely  gives  the  tone  and  the 
law.”— Pbof.  Smyth. 

“The  immortal  narrative  of  Hume.  .  .  .  Hume,  whose  simple 
but  profound  history  will  be  coeval  with  the  long  and  eventful  thread 
of  English  story.”— Sir  Archibald  Alison. 

“His charming  style,  his  profound  sagacity,  and  his  philosophical 
reflections,  clothe  his  great  work  with  irresistible  attraction^”— » 
Ssa*<?em,ob  rent.  CD 


CYCLOPEDIA  OF  EXPRESSION. 

WORDS  CLASSIFIED  ACCORDING-  TO  THEIR  MEANING, 

as  an  am  to  the  expression  of  thought.  By  P  M  and  J.  L.  Roget. 
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t  “The  new  edition  is  vastly  superior  to  all  former  ones.  While  there 
are  many  dictionaries  and  works  on  synonyms,  none  can  be  named 
beside  this.'  —Round  Table,  London. 

!<  Almost  as  indispensable  to  all  writers  as  a  dictionary.”—  World, 
New  York. 

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Mail,  New  York. 

“Will  be  highly  prized. Observer,  New  York. 

•  The  new  edition  is  much  more  valuable  than  the  old.”— School 
Journal,  New  York. 


OLIVER  CROMWELL. 


LIFE  OF  OLIVER  CROMWELL.  BY  EDWIN  PAXTON 

Hood.  Large  12mo.,  Long  Primer  type,  224  pages.  Paper  covers, 
15  cts.;  extra  cloth,  35  cents. 

One  of  the  most  readable  volumes  of  biography 
■which  has  been  published  for  many  years,  and  generally 
accepted  as  the  best  popular  life  of  Cromwell.  Probably 
the  life  of  no  other  Englishman  has  had  an  equally 
great  influence  upon  the  world’s  history.  He  not  only 
won  his  way  from  the  peaceful  common  life  of  a 
country  home  to  the  head  of  the  English  nation,  but 
raised  the  nation  itself  from  the  position  of  a  third-rate 
power  to  that  of  the  greatest  nation  of  the  world  in  his 
day;  winning  fame  as  a  warrior,  barely  second  to  that 
of  Caesar  or  Napoleon,  and,  as  a  statesman,  only  below 
our  own  "Washington  and  Lincoln. 


ALEX.  H.  STEPHENS. 

LIFE  OF  ALEXANDER  H.  STEPHENS.  BY  FRANK  H. 

Norton,  author  of  “The  Life  of  Gen.  Winfield  S.  Hancock.” 

Two  Illustrations.  Elzevir  edition,  94  pages.  Cloth,  25  cts.;  half 

Russia,  red  edges,  35  cts, 

“Every  Southern  man  should  find  a  peculiar  delight  in  the  Life 
and  times  of  this  great  statesman.”— Democrat,  Russellville,  Ark. 

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life.  It  is  an  interesting  story  and  Mr.  Norton  tells  it  well.”— Daily 
Times,  Brooklyn,  N.  Y. 

“  Mr.  Norton  has  told  the  story  cleverly,  and  it  is  an  intensely  in¬ 
teresting  one.  Mr.  Stephens  wap  one  of  the  most  remarkable  men 
our  country  has  produced,  and  his  biographer  has  accumulated  many 
incidents  and  anecdotes  which  are  new.”— The  Star,  New  York. 

“  The  volume  is  small  enough  to  be  carried  in  a  coat  pocket  or 
satchel  •  yet  is  suitable  for  a  library,  and  any  book  worth  reading  is 
worth  keeping.  This  biography  of  the  great  Southern  statesman 
was  written  by  Frank  H.  Norton,  the  well-known  scholar  and 
writer,  who  wrote  the  best  life  of  General  Hancock.  It  tells  a  story 
which  reads  like  a  romance,— one  of  the  most  remarkable  in  Ameri¬ 
can  annals.”—  Christian  at  Work ,  New  York.  (9) 


L  I  Y  T 


BY  THE 

Key.  W.  LUCAS  COLLINS,  M.A. 

AUTHOR  OP 

‘ETONIANA,’  ‘THE  PUBLIC  SCHOOLS,’  ETC. 


NEW  YORK 

JOHN  B.  ALDEN,  PUBLISHER 

1883 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER.  PAGE. 

I.  Introductory  .  5 

II.  Rome  under  its  Seven  Kings .  17 

III.  Growth  of  the  Republic . 29 

IY.  From  the  Decemvirate  to  the  Sack  of  Rome  by  the 

Gauls . 53 

V.  Conquest  of  Latium .  67 

VI.  The  Romans  become  Masters  of  Italy .  83 

VII.  The  Lost  Decade .  94 

VIII.  Second  Punic  War:  Thrasymenus  and  Cannae .  98 

IX.  Second  Punic  War:  Cannae  to  Zama . .  112 

X.  The  Romans  in  Greece .  134 

XI.  The  Romans  in  Asia  .  139 

XII.  The  Fall  of  Macedon .  149 

XIII.  Concluding  Remarks . . 159 


! 


LIVY. 


CHAPTER  L 

INTRODUCTORY. 

Titus  Lrvius  Patavinus — owing  this  last  name  to  his 
having  been  born  at  Patavium  (Padua) — was  one  of 
that  brilliant  circle  of  authors  who  lighted  the  court 
of  Augustus.  His  birth  may  be  fixed  with  most  prob¬ 
ability  in  59  b.c.  ,  the  year  in  which  Julius  Caesar  and 
Bibulus  were  consuls.  Horace  would  thus  be  his 
senior  by  about  five  years,  and  Virgil  ten;  and  although 
liis  name  is  not  mentioned  by  either  poet,  he  was  prob¬ 
ably  well  acquainted  with  both.  Though  of  provincial 
origin,  as  were  nearly  all  the  great  Roman  writers,  he 
came  of  a  family  which  had  in  its  day  given  con¬ 
suls  to  Rome;  and  his  native  city,  in  which  his  own 
particular  branch  of  it  had  settled,  was  one  of  the  most 
important  in  Italy.  His  original  profession  was  most 
probably  that  of  a  professor  of  rhetoric :  a  vocation  not 
only  popular  and  respectable,  but  often  highly  lucrative, 
if  the  professor  could  get  his  lectures  well  attended. 
We  know  nothing  of  his  first  introduction  to  the 
capital;  but,  if  we  may  trust  his  contemporary,  Horace, 
literary  ability  of  any  kind  was  a  ready  passport  to  the 
acquaintance  of  some  of  the  great  men  about  Augustus’ 


6 


LIVY, ; 


court,  and  through  them  to  the  emperor  himself.  Some 
such  introduction  was  at  least  effected;  for  he  mentions 
in  the  early  part  of  his  history,  very  simply  and  as 
though  it  were  quite  an  ordinary  event,  his  having  ac¬ 
companied  Augustus  into  the  temple  of  Jupiter  Fere- 
trius,  and  heard  him  read  the  old  inscriptions  there.* 
Some  degree  of  intimacy  seems  also  to  be  implied  by 
the  anecdote  recorded  by  the  historian  Tacitus,!  that 
Livy  had  expressed  such  a  warm  admiration  of  the 
character  of'  Pompey,  the  unsuccessful  opponent  of 
the  first  Csesar,  that  Augustus  used  good-humoredly  to 
call  him  a  “  Pompeyite,”  without  allowing  the  fact  of 
his  predilection  for  his  uncle’s  great  rival  to  interfere  in 
any  way  with  their  friendship.  It  is  said  that  he  even 
had  apartments  assigned  him  in  the  imperial  palace. 

It  may  very  probably  have  been  in  accordance  with 
some  suggestion  from  Augustus  himself,  or  some  of  the 
able  ministers  who  were  in  his  confidence,  that  he  first 
turned  his  attention  from  rhetoric  to  history.  A  crowd 
of  small  authors,  eager  to  meet  the  tastes  of  a  patron 
who  was  himself  an  author — though  he  had  the  good 
sense  to  burn  his  tragedies  instead  of  publishing  them 
— were  busy  writing  on  the  recent  civil  wars.  The 
great  emperor — let  his  undefined  position  be  so  termed, 
in  default  of  any  other  word  to  express  it — was  always 
anxious  to  magnify  the  historic  glories  of  Rome.  As 
in  that  interest  he  had  made  Virgil  an  epic  poet  almost 
against  his  will,  so  we  may  conceive  he  recognized  in 
the  eloquent  rhetorician  all  the  capacities  of  a  court 
historian.  There  can  be  no  doubt,  at  least,  that  the 
author  of  the  “Annals  of  Rome  ”  had  the  hearty  con¬ 
currence  of  Augustus  in  the  great  work  which  he  under- 


*  Book  iv.  chap.  20. 


t  Tac.  Annals,  iv.  34. 


INTRODUCTORY. 


7 


took.  That  he  must  have  had  free  access  to  public 
documents  and  records  is  evident  from  the  references 
and  quotations  in  the  body  of  his  history.  Without 
such  facilities  it  could  never  nave  been  written,  and  to 
have  obtained  them  implies  much  more  intimate  rela¬ 
tions  with  the  existing  authorities  than  would  be  neces¬ 
sarily  the  case  in  our  more  liberal  days.  Another 
proof  that  he  enjoyed  some  degree  of  intimacy  with 
the  family  of  the  Caesars  may  be  found  in  the  statement 
of  Suetonius,  that  it  was  at  his  suggestion  that  young 
Claudius  Nero,  the  step-son  of  Augustus  and  future 
emperor,  began  the  study  of  history.  On  this  slight 
ground  some  of  his  biographers  have  built  a  theory  that 
the  education  of  the  young  prince  had  been  intrusted  to 
him. 

Such  biographies  of  him  as  are  extant — notably  that  by 
his  own  townsman,  Giacomo  Tomasini,  bishop  of  Citta 
Nuova — are  utterly  untrustworthy  in  their  details.  All 
-  that  we  know  of  his  private  life  is  that  he  was  certainly 
married,  and  had  at  least  one  son  and  one  daughter. 
The  latter  became  the  wife  of  Magius  or  Magirus, 
who  is  said  by  the  elder  Seneca  to  have  owed  his  fame 
as  a  rhetorician  rather  to  the  merits  of  his  father-in 
law  than  to  his  own.  So  widespread,  indeed,  was  the 
reputation  of  the  great  historian  even  during  his  life, 
that  Pliny  relates,  in  one  of  his  letters,  the  fact  of  a 
man  having  once  made  a  journey  all  the  way  from 
Cadiz  merely  to  gratify  himself  with  a  sight  of  him. 
If  we  want  to  see  how  biographies  grow,  we  have  only 
to  read  the  amplification  of  this  fact,  if  fact  it  be,  by 
such  a  respectable  writer  as  St.  Jerome:  “We  read,” 
says  he  (and  he  must  mean  in  Pliny),  “that  to  drink 
of  the  rich  stream  of  eloquence  which  flowed  from 
Jfivy  there  came  sundry  men  of  npble  birth  from  the 


8 


LIVY. 


most  distant  parts  of  Spain — from  Cadiz — and  from 
Gaul:  and  men  whom  the  sight  of  Rome  itself  had 
failed  to  attract  were  drawn  thither  by  the  fame  of  a 
single  individual.  That  generation  saw  a  wonder,  un¬ 
heard  of  in  any  age,  and  ever  to  be  remembered,  that 
visitors  entered  such  a  city,  and  yet  were  seeking  some¬ 
thing  beside  and  beyond  it.**  Livy  returned  to-  end 
his  days  in  his  native  town,  where  he  died  at  the  age 
of  seventy-one. 

Some  thirteen  centuries  after  his  death,  the  good 
citizens  of  Padua  thought  they  had  discovered  his 
bones.  First  of  all,  in  1860,  a  tablet  was  dug  up 
within  the  monastery  of  St.  Justina,  bearing  an  inscrip¬ 
tion  in  which  certainly  occurred  the  name  of  T.  Lrvius, 
and  which  was  at  once  associated  with  the  great  his¬ 
torian.  Then,  about  fifty  years  afterwards,  in  digging 
the  foundations  of  some  new  buildings,  the  workmen 
came  upon  an  ancient  pavement,  and  below  it  a  leaden 
cist  enclosing  human  bones.  The  older  monks  pro¬ 
nounced  this  to  be  the  very  place  where  the  monumen¬ 
tal  tablet  had  previously  been  found;  and,  there  could 
be  no  doubt,  these  were  the  bones  of  Livy.  Great 
honor  was  paid  to  them,  and  a  costly  monument 
erected  at  the  public  expense.  But  in  one  respect  the 
citizens  were  ungrateful:  they  made  a  present  of  the 
bone  of  the  right  arm — the  arm  which  had  written  the 
immortal  “Annals” — to  Alphonso  “the Magnanimous,” 
King  of  Arragon  and  the  two  Sicilies;  whose  succes¬ 
sors  (for  he  died  before  it  reached  him)  had  it  enclosed 
in  a  rich  shrine.  The  whole  romance,  however,  which 
had  gathered  round  the  great  author’s  bones  was  dissi¬ 
pated  by  the  same  relentless  modern  criticism  which 


*  S.  Hieron.  Epist.  5H, 


INTRODUCTORY. 


9 


lias  since  dealt  so  hardly  with  the  earlier  portions  of  his 
“  Annals.”  Under  competent  examination,  the  abbre¬ 
viations  on  the  monumental  tablet — and  therefore  prob¬ 
ably  the  bones — were  found  to  belong  to  a  slave  who 
had  received  his  freedom,  had  in  consequence  taken 
the  name  of  his  master,  which  happened  to  be 
“Livius,”  and  had  subsequently  risen  to  some  distinc¬ 
tion  in  the  city. 

Besides  his  great  historical  work,  Livy  wrote  (prob¬ 
ably  at  an  earlier  period)  certain  Dialogues  and  treatises 
on  philosophy,  of  which  we  know  nothing  beyond  their 
mention  by  Seneca.  The  “  Annals,”  which  alone  have 
reached  us,  and  these  in  a  sadly  mutilated  shape,  con¬ 
tained  in  their  entirety  the  history  of  Rome  from  its 
foundation  down  to  within  a  few  years  of  the  Christian 
era.  Of  the  hundred  and  forty-two  “  books”  to  which 
the  work  extended,  we  have  now  but  thirty-five,  and 
of  these  some  were  recovered  only  in  the  sixteenth 
century.  Pope  Gregory  I.  is  said  to  have  ordered  all 
the  copies  of  the  “  Annals”  on  which  he  could  lay 
hands  to  be  burnt,  because  of  the  many  superstitious 
stories  they  contained;  and  the  same  is  said  to  have 
been  done  by  Gregory  VII.  Considering  the  character 
of  the  legends  which  the  Roman  Church  of  those  days 
adopted  for  its  own,  these  zealous  precautions  may  seem 
somewhat  inconsistent.  There  is  a  fanciful  kind  of  di¬ 
vision  of  the  books  into  “decades,”  or  sets  of  ten  each, 
— an  arrangement  due  probably  to  the  early  editors 
rather  than  to  the  author.  We  have  the  first,  third, 
and  fourth  of  these  decades  entire,  with  half  of  the 
fifth,  and  a  few  fragments  of  the  others.  Unhappily, 
the  lost  portion,  as  containing  the  later  and  more  au¬ 
thentic  history  of  the  Roman  people,  and  more  espe¬ 
cially  of  the  period  with  which  the  writer  was  contem- 


10 


LIVY. 


porary,  is  that  we  should  have  most  wished  to  see. 
Lord  Bolingbroke  said  that  he  would  willingly  give  up 
all  we  have  for  what  we  have  not;  but  this  is  not,  after 
all,  a  very  remarkable  concession,  since  the  missing 
books  are  more  than  thrice  as  many  as  their  survivors. 
Dr.  Arnold’s  valuation  is  more  just:  he  says  that  we 
might  afford  to  give  up  ‘  ‘  every  line  of  Livy’s  history 
that  we  at  present  possess,  if  we  could  so  purchase  the 
recovery  of  the  eighth  and  ninth  decades  only,  which 
contained  the  history  of  the  Italian  War,  and  the  Civil 
War  of  Marius  and  Sylla.”  Gibbon  goes  so  far  as  to 
say  that  he  would  readily  sacrifice  the  works  of  a  good 
many  ancient  authors  which  we  possess  for  Livy’s 
history  of  the  sixty  years  between  a.u.c.  663  and 
723.  From  time  to  time  scholars  have  been  tan¬ 
talized  with  hopes  of  recovering  the  lost  manuscripts, 
and  reports  of  their  existence — often  in  the  most  un¬ 
likely  quarters.  Buried  in  dust  in  the  library  of  the 
ignorant  and  jealous  monks  of  Mount  Athos,  whence 
the  great  Colbert  had  an  idea  of  sending  “  two  frigates 
under  Maltese  colors  to  fetch  them” — hidden  in  the 
seraglio  of  the  Grand  Turk — in  the  island  of  Chios — 
in  St.  Columba’s  monastery  at  Iona, — the  lost  treasure 
was  heard  of,  but  never  found.  At  one  time  a  com¬ 
plete  manuscript  was  “daily  expected  from  the  Es- 
curial;”  at  another,  it  was  said  to  have  actually 
“arrived  in  Dublin.”  Once,  it  is  said,  “a  page  of 
the  second  decade  was  found  by  a  man  of  letters  in 
the  parchment  of  his  battledore,  while  he  was  amusing 
himself  in  the  country.  He  hastened  to  the  maker  of 
the  battledore,  but  arrived  too  late;  the  man  had  fin¬ 
ished  the  last  page  of  Livy — about  a  week  before !”  * 


*  Disraeli,  Cur.  of  Lit. 


INTRODUCTORY. 


11 


So  voluminous  a  work  was  not  given  to  the  public 
all  at  once  by  its  author.  The  Roman  annalist,  like  so 
many  of  his  modem  successors,  seems  to  have  pub¬ 
lished  a  volume  at  a  time.  The  first  decade  was 
written  and  issued  at  Rome  probably  between  b.c.  27 
and  20,  at  the  same  time  that  Virgil  was  writing  his 
iEneid.  But  the  later  books,  as  is  clear  from  the 
last  events  they  record,  could  not  have  been  finished 
until  some  twenty  years  afterwards.  Their  contents 
are  fortunately  known  to  us  by  means  of  epitomes,  the 
work  of  some  unknown  compiler  of  early  date — pos- 

4 

eibly  not  much  later  than  the  original  historian — which 
have  survived,  though  the  books  of  which  they  form 
the  summary  have  perished.  There  are  some  intervals 
of  Roman  history  for  which  these  dry  skeletons  remain 
as  our  sole  authorities. 

It  has  been  remarked  as  unfortunate  that  such 
fragments  as  we  have  of  Livy’s  great  work  form  by  no 
means  the  most  valuable  portion.  The  first  decade 
contains  the  history  of  460  years — from  the  foundation 
of  Rome  to  her  subjugation  of  her  warlike  neigh¬ 
bors  the  Samnites.  How  far  myth  supplies  the  place 
of  history  throughout  the  wholq  of  this  period  is  a 
question  still  under  debate  by  scholars.  But  the  old 
faith  which  believed  in  Romulus  and  Remus  as  un¬ 
doubtedly  as  in  Antony  and  Augustus  has  at  least 
departed  long  ago.  Critical  students  have  recognized 
the  fact  that  for  all  this  long  period  we  have  absolutely 
nothing  like  contemporary  authority.  Livy  made 
full  use,  as  might  be  expected,  and  as  he  distinctly 
asserts  of  the  works  of  previous  annalists  and  histo¬ 
rians,  but  all  these  were  of  comparatively  recent 
date.  Quintus  Fabius  Piqtor,  the  earliest  Roman  his¬ 
torian  of  w)W  we  h$ye  any  mention,  and  Cipcjqg 


12 


LIVY. 


Alimentus,  wer.e  both  alive  during  the  Second  Punic 
War,  and  these  are  the  most  ancient  authorities  to 
whom  Livy  refers.  There  is  therefore  no  trace  of  con¬ 
temporary  history  for  the  first  five  centuries  of  Rome. 
The  “  Origines”  of  Cato  the  Elder,  the  History  of  M. 
Acilius  Glabrio,  and  the  “Annals”  of  Calpurnius  Piso 
— to  all  of  which  Livy  makes  reference — were  still 
more  modern  compilations.  So  that  in  the  early  his¬ 
tory  of  Rome,  we  have  not  only  to  take  into  account  . 
the  tendency  to  the  marvellous  and  the  mythical  which 
is  the  characteristic  of  all  chroniclers  in  the  infancy  of 
a  national  literature,  but  also  the  still  more  embarrass¬ 
ing  fact  that  Rome  seems  to  have  had,  for  those  five 
hundred  years,  no  written  history  at  all,  in  our  modern 
sense  of  the  word. 

There  were,  however,  certain  public  records  from 
which  Fabius  and  Cincius,  and  other  writers,  may  be 
supposed  to  have  drawn  their  information.  There  were 
the  “  Annals,”  as  they  were  called,  in  which  the  Ponti- 
fex  Maximus  set  down  the  chief  events  of  each  year. 
There  were  the  “  Commentaria,”  or  notes  of  events, 
kept  in  the  sacred  colleges  of  pontiffs  and  augurs,  and 
those  of  the  censors,  which  appear  to  have  been  care¬ 
fully  preserved  in  their  respective  families.  There  were, 
again,  certain  registers  written  on  linen  (libri  lintei),  pre¬ 
served  in  the  temple  of  Juno  Moneta  on  the  Capitol, 
which  gave  at  least  the  names  of  the  consuls  and  other 
public  officers  for  the  year,  and  which  Livy  himself 
quotes  more  than  once,  though  at  second-hand.  But 
such  records,  even  allowing  them  to  have  been  correctly 
kept  as  to  the  succession  of  magistrates  and  the  leading 
events  of  each  year — laws  passed,  treaties  made,  and 
even  victories  won — could  not,  from  their  very  nature, 
§nter  ir}|Q  those  details  of  person,  an$  c|rcumstanc^ 


INTRODUCTORY. 


n 

and  motive  which  the  historian  requires  in  order  to 
make  his  narrative  readable.  The  “  Annales  Maximi” 
of  the  pontiffs  which  Aulus  Gellius  had  seen  were,  he 
assures  us,  very  jejune  and  dry,  and  far  from  pleasant 
reading.*  There  comes  in  again  another  difficulty  as  to 
the  authenticity  of  even  these  dry  bones  of  history  them¬ 
selves, — that  both  Livy  and  other  writers  distinctly  state 
that  when  Rome  was  burnt  by  the  Gauls,  most  of  these 
public  records  perished  in  the  conflagration;  so  that  Fa- 
bius  Pictor  and  his  successors  would  not  have  had  even 
these  authorities  to  work  from — authorities  which,  how¬ 
ever  meagre,  would  be  trustworthy  so  far  as  they  went. 
Probably  the  Romans  would  not  be  slow  to  repair  such 
destruction  in  the  only  way  they  could,  by  substituting 
new  records  more  or  less  imaginary.  As  our  own  mo¬ 
nastic  bodies  in  England  could  always  produce  charters 
of  the  earliest  date,  though  admitting  in  their  own 
chronicles  that  the  whole  contents  of  their  monastery 
had  been  burnt  by  the  Danes;  so  an  unbroken  list  of 
consuls,  dictators,  and  censors'  was  drawn  up,  from 
whatever  sources,  in  the  reign  of  Augustus  or  Tiberius, 
and  is  still  extant,  in  a  somewhat  mutilated  condition, 
as  the  “  Fasti  Capitolini.” 

Besides  these  official  records,  materials  for  history 
would  be  at  hand  in  the  copies  of  treaties  made  with 
neighboring  states,  which  were  in  most  cases  engraved 
on  brazen  plates  or  pillars,  and  kept  for  safe  custody  in 
the  temples;  as  well  as  in  the  laws  passed  from  time  to 
time,  which  were  engraved  and  preserved  in  the  same 
way.  But  of  these,  again,  Livy  says  that  many  were 
destroyed  in  the  burning  of  the  city.  Even  in  cases 
where  they  still  existed,  there  are,  unfortunately,  many 


*  Aul.  Gell.  ii.  28,  v.  377. 


14 


LIVY. 


indications  that  he  was  too  little  sensible  of  their  value, 
and  too  negligent  in  consulting  them.  Other  sources 
from  which  the  early  historian  of  Rome  might  draw 
very  tempting  but  not  very  trustworthy  information, 
for  the  biographical  part  of  his  work,  would  be  the 
funeral  orations  pronounced  over  distinguished  men,  re¬ 
counting  their  deeds  and  those  of  their  ancestors,  copies 
of  which  were  religiously  preserved  in  their  families, 
and  in  the  commemorative  inscriptions  on  the  statues 
of  deceased  heroes.  But  the  latter,  as  Livy  himself  ad¬ 
mits,*  were  often  notoriously  false.  Dr.  Arnold  pro¬ 
nounces  them  “the  most  unscrupulous  in  falsehood  of 
any  pretended  records  of  facts  that  the  world  has  yet 
seen.”  f  Indeed,  if  we  bear  in  mind  the  character  of 
our  old-fashioned  funeral  sermons  and  epitaphs,  or  a 
more  modern  French  funeral  “oration,”  we  may  judge 
how  far  this  kind  of  biographical  record  is  likely  to  con¬ 
tribute  to  the  strict  facts  of  history.  More  to  be  de¬ 
pended  upon,  in  their  spirit  if  not  in  their  details,  would 
be  the  ancient  chants  and  lays,  preserved  from  age  to 
age  in  the  national  memory,  even  if  not  committed  in 
every  case  to  writing,  and  recited  or  sung  at  religious 
festivals  and  at  private  banquets.  That  such  was  the 
Roman  custom  may  be  gathered  from  many  allusions 
in  Roman  writers ;  but  how  early  the  production  of  such 
historical  lays  may  have  been  is  quite  uncertain.  Nie¬ 
buhr  considers  that  they  form  a  large  portion  of  the 
substructure  of  such  early  Roman  history  as  we  have. 
He  thinks  that  he  can  trace  distinct  poems  on  the  ad¬ 
ventures  of  Romulus,  the  rule  of  Tullus  Hostilius,  the 
combat  of  the  Horatii  with  the  Curiatii,  the  destruc¬ 
tion  of  Alba,  the  story  of  the  Tarquins,  the  battle  of  the 


*  Book  viii.  chap.  34,  40, 


t  Hist,  of  Rome,  iii.  373, 


INTRODUCTORY . 


15 


Lake  Regillus,  the  exploits  of  CbrioldhUS,  and  other 
romantic  episodes  of  Roman  history ;  and  he  even  claims 
to  have  detected  in  the  pages  of  Livy  fragments  of  the 
old  metrical  diction.*  Such  investigations  must  always 
be  more  or  less  fanciful;  yet  there  can  be  no  reasonable 
doubt  but  that  the  exploits  of  national  heroes  were 
wTorked  into  song  at  a  very  early  period  by  the  Romans 
as  well  as  by  other  nations;  and  they  must  have  had 
some  share,  and  perhaps  a  large  share,  in  the  making 
of  national  history.  Although  this  early  poetry  has 
wholly  perished  (as  has  been  the  fate,  no  doubt,  of  much 
traditional  literature  of  this  kind  in  all  nations),  there 
are  fragments  still  preserved  of  metrical  annals  of  a 
later  date.  Ennius,  who  lived  nearly  two  centuries  be¬ 
fore  Livy,  wrote  eighteen  books  of  “  Annals”  in  verse; 
and  it  is  not  likely  that  his  was  the  first  attempt  at  a 
metrical  chronicle.  Nothing  remains  of  his  work  but  a 
few  lines  preserved  here  and  there  in  the  pages  of  other 
writers;  but  Livy  must  have  seen  it,  and  Niebuhr  thinks 
he  was  indebted  to  it  for  his  “  History  of  the  Kings.” 

It  has  been  urged,  on  the  other  hand,  that  it  is  all 
but  incredible  that  a  people  like  the  Romans,  extend¬ 
ing  as  they  did  so  widely,  even  in  those  earlier  times, 
their  rule  and  their  commerce,  should  for  so  many 
years  have  possessed  no  contemporary  and  authentic 
history.  It  is  possible,  of  course,  that  Fatius  and 
Piso  may  have  had  access  to  chronicles  which  were 
afterwards  lost;  and  as  their  own  works  liave  perisned, 
we  have  no  means  of  ascertaining  wha;  opportunities 
they  enjoyed,  or  to  what  authorities  the}  may  have  re- 


*  It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  remind  the  English  reader  that 
Lord  Macaulay  strongly  supports  Niebuhr's  view,  and  has  made 
it  the  foundation  of  his  “  Lays  of  Ancient  Rome.’’ 


16 


LIVY. 


ferred.  There  may  have  been  an  earlier  historical  lit¬ 
erature  known  to  them,  though  not  to  Livy.  But  it 
must  be  confessed  that  the  whole  of  his  account  of  the' 
Seven  Kings  of  Rome  reads  rather  like  a  series  of  ro¬ 
mantic  legends  than  a  record  of  actual  events;  and  only 
as  such  can  it  reasonably  be  accepted.  We  may  fairly 
say  of  this  portion  of  his  “Annals”  what,  he  says  him¬ 
self  of  the  times  before  the  foundation  of  Rome — that 
“  they  had  more  of  the  embellishments  of  fable  than  of 
the  simplicity  of  fact.”  And  it  maybe  strongly  sus¬ 
pected  that  what  he  here  asserts  of  antecedent  traditions 
he  would  have  admitted  to  be  true  of  such  traditions 
as  he  has  embodied  in  his  work.  It  is  not  likely  that 
the  age  of  legend  came  to  a  close,  and  the  age  of  history 
began,  at  a  date  exactly  coinciding  with  the  building 
of  Rome.  What  amount  of  fact  is  embalmed  in  the 
pleasant  fable — for  that  some  substratum  of  fact  there 
is  cannot  reasonably  be  doubted — is  a  question  which 
has  furnished,  and  will  probably  continue  to  furnish, 
discussion  for  more  learned  and  ambitious  volumes  than 
ours. 

The  form  into  which  Livy  has  thrown  his  work — 
that  of  Annals,  naming  the  public  officers  and  record¬ 
ing  the  events  of  each  succeeding  year — was  probably 
adopted  from  his  predecessors,  but  is  very  inconvenient. 
It  interrupts  awkwardly  the  continuous  story  of  a  cam¬ 
paign  or  of  a  great  political  revolution,  and  is  a  source 
to  the  reader  of  bewilderment  rather  than  of  assistance. 
Especially  does  it  seem  unsuited  to  the  author’s  pictur¬ 
esque  and  somewhat  diffuse  style,  which  suffers  much 
in  its  general  effect  from  these  constant  formal  interrup¬ 
tions.  The  annalistic  method  will  not  be  followed 
In  these  pages;  and  only  such  dates  are  inserted  as 
seemed  of  special  importance. 


ROME  UNDER  ITS  SEVEN  KINGS.  17 


CHAPTER  II. 

ROME  UNDER  ITS  SEVEN  KINGS. 

(book  I.  B.c.  753-509.) 

It  has  been  already  said  that  these  “Annals”  begin 
with  the  foundation  of  the  city  of  Rome.  The  author 
adopts — he  could  scarcely  do  otherwise — the  current 
legend  of  iEneas  having  led  a  colony  of  Trojans  into 
Latium,  the  fated  end  of  his  wanderings  after  his  escape 
from  Troy.  The  belief  in  this  old  heroic  descent,  true 
or  false,  was  too  strong  in  the  Roman  mind  for  any 
writer  of  national  history  to  venture  uoon  questioning 
it,  even  had  historical  criticism  been  understood  in 
those  times.  It  was  seriously  referred  to,  from  time  to 
timo,  in  public  acts  and  documents.  Augustus  himself 
encouraged  it  as  a  point  of  national  pride;  acute  and 
philosophical  historians  like  Sallust — to  use  Sallust’s 
own  words — “accepted”  it.  It  is  not  necessary  to  ex¬ 
amine  too  closely  into  the  private  and  personal  belief 
of  either  historian  in  this  national  pedigree,  any  more 
than  into  his  personal  faith  in  the  national  theology. 
Livy’s  own  expression  when  he  introduces  the  story — 
“ satis  constat ” — does  not  necessarily  mean  more  than 
‘it  is  universally  admitted.”  He  took  the  tale  as  he 
found  it.  He  was  by  no  means  prepared,  as  all  our 
modern  historians  are,  with  a  plausible  theory  of  his 
own  which  should  sift,  or  interpret,  or  altogether  ex¬ 
plode,  the  popular  story;  and  the  public  for  whom  he 
was  writing  would  have  been  very  far  from  appreci¬ 
ating  his  work  if  \xq  l^d  propounded  any  theories  of 
149  .  - 


18 


LIVY. 


The  beginning  of  this  history,  then,  is,  in  fact,  a  con¬ 
tinuation  of  the  iEneid,  and  scarcely  professes  to  be 
more  historical.  We  have  the  landing  in  Italy  of 
iEneas  and  his  Trojans;  his  marriage  with  Lavinia, 
daughter  of  Latinus  the  king;  and  his  foundation  of  a 
city  called  Lavinium,  after  her  name.  Here,  indeed, 
Livy  gives  his  readers  the  choice  between  two  of  the 
current  legends:  either  this  marriage  was  the  result  of 
an  amicable  arrangement  between  the  intruder  and  the 
natives,  or  the  hand  of  the  princess  and  the  partition  of 
the  kingdom  were  the  prizes  of  a  victorious  battle 
fought  by  iEneas  against  the  king.  We  have  also,  as 
Virgil  gives  us,  the  attempt  of  Turnus,  the  young  king 
of  the  Rutulians,  to  exact  vengeance  for  the  loss  of 
Lavinia,  who  had  already  been  affianced  to  him,  his  ap¬ 
peal  for  aid  to  the  powerful  Etruscans,  and  his  defeat 
and  death  in  battle.  And  here  the  historian  gives  us 
the  fulfilment  of  those  foreboding  words  which  the 
poet  has  put  into  the  mouth  of  his  hero  when  he  is 
bidding  farewell  to  his  young  son  before  he  goes  to 
this  his  last  victory, — 

“  Learn  of  thy  father  to  be  great— 

Of  others  to  be  fortunate.” *  * 

In  that  battle  on  the  banks  of  the  Numicius  the  great 
iEneas  died,  says  our  historian,  and  was  buried  there; 
disappeared  in  some  mysterious  fashion,  said  another 
and  more  popular  legend,  adapting  itself  to  that  pas¬ 
sionate  hero-worship  which,  as  in  the  case  of  the  Britons 
and  Arthur,  would  not  admit  any  such  common  circum¬ 
stance  as  death 

The  widowed  Lavinia  is  said  to  have  ruled  the  new 

—  ■  1  ■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■- .  j  ■  -  ■.  ..'wr 

*  Virgil,  M n.  xii,  436, 


i 


ROME  UNDER  ITS  SEVEN  KINGS.  19 

kingdom  during  the  infancy  of  her  son  Ascanius;  for, 
in  these  pages,  it  is  she  who  is  the  mother  of  the  young 
chief,  and  not  the  unhappy  Creusa.  All  goes  on  hap¬ 
pily  under  her  government;  the  warlike  Etruscans  have 
been  reduced  to  quiet,  and  consent  to  let  the  Tiber  be 
the  boundary  between  them  and  the  new  Latin  king¬ 
dom,  whose  prosperity  is  so  great  that  Ascanius,  when 
he  grows  to  manhood,  leads  part  of  its  increasing  popu¬ 
lation  to  found  a  new  settlement  under  the  Alban  Hills, 
which  he  calls  Alba  Longa  (“the  Long  White  Town”). 
There  reigned,  according  to  the  story,  a  succession  of 
kings  called  Silvii,  from  Silvius  the  son  of  Ascanius, 
from  whom  in  course  of  time  spring  Romulus  and 
Remus,  the  founders  of  Rome. 

For  as  the  historian  did  not  dream  of  questioning  the 
traditional  descent  from  Troy,  still  less  would  he  have 
run  counter  to  the  national  boast  that  the  Romans  were 
the  sons  of  the  war-god  and  the  nurslings  of  the  slie-wolf. 
So  we  have  given  us  in  full  detail  the  legend  of  the 
Twins,  sons  of  the  god  Mars  by  the  mortal  princess, 
Rhea  Silvia,  who  had  been  condemned  by  an  usurping 
uncle  to  perpetual  virginity ;  the  Twins  who  escape  the 
doom  pronounced  by  the  usurper  when  he  hears  of  their 
birth — 

“  The  children  to  the  Tiber, 

The  mother  to  the  tomb”— 

who  are  suckled  by  the  wolf  and  found  by  the  shep¬ 
herd,  who  live  by  robbing  the  robbers,  whom  their  old 
grandfather  Numitor  recognizes  by  their  noble  bearing, 
and  who  slay  the  usurper  Amulius,  and  restore  the 
kingdom  to  its  rightful  heir.  Did  any  one  doubt  the 
story?  Was  there  not,  as  our  author  points  out,  the  fig- 
tree  called  Ruminalis  yet  standing  under  which  the 
Twins  were  suekied?  Anci  was  there  not,  he  might 


20 


LIVY. 


have  added,  the  famous  statue  of  the  wolf  and  her 
nurslings,  set  up  under  that  fig-tree,  still  to  be  seen?* 
Such  memorials  were  far  more  to  the  Roman  taste  than 
any  amount  of  historical  criticism. 

So  Romulus  and  Remus,  continues  the  legend,  pro¬ 
ceeded  to  build  their  new  city;  but  the  brothers  quar¬ 
relled,  and  the  younger  fell  by  the  elder’s  hand.  And 
Romulus  went  on  with  his  work  alone,  and  called  it,  from 
his  own  name,  Rome.  But  the  circuit  which  in  his 
ambition  he  had  enclosed  within  his  new  walls  proved 
too  large  for  his  present  colony,  and  he  opened  an  “  asy¬ 
lum,”  to  which  he  invited  all  the  reckless  and  discon¬ 
tented  spirits  in  the  neighboring  tribes.  So  the  town 
was  at  last  filled  with  citizens;  and  Romulus  chose  a 
senate  of  a  hundred  elders,  and  for  his  own  greater 
dignity  assumed  (from  the  Etruscans,  as  our  author 
thinks)  the  ivory  “  curule  chair,”  and  the  white  robe 
with  the  purple  border,  and  the  twelve  “lictors”  to  at¬ 
tend  him  in  state,  bearing  the  rods  and  axes  in  token  of 
executive  power — the  well-known  emblems  which  ever 
after  accompanied  the  sovereignty  of  Rome, 

But  the  new  population,  as  might  be  expected  from 
the  manner  in  which  it  had  been  got  together,  was  defi¬ 
cient  in  the  matter  of  wives;  and  this  deficiency  the 
neighboring  tribes  were  by  no  means  willing  to  supply. 
Upon  which  the  Romans  had  recourse  to  a  stratagem 
which  reads  very  much  like  a  piece  of  the  actual  his¬ 
tory  of  a  rude  age.  It  is  an  almost  exact  repetition  of 
the  raid  of  the  men  of  Benjamin  at  Shiloh.  Romulus 
proclaimed  a  festival ;  and  when  the  daughters  of  the 


*  Erected  out  of  the  fines  levied  on  usurers  (Liv.  x.  69).  It  is 
pot  certain  whether  the  figure  of  the  wolf  now  shown  in  th§ 
fffifmo  de’  Conservator!  at  Rome  is  the  game  or  not, 


ROME  UNDER  ITS  SEVEN  KINGS.  21 


Sabines  came  to  see,  at  a  given  signal  they  were  seized 
and  carried  off  to  become  the  wives  of  the  Romans. 
The  outrage  is  said  to  have  aroused,  as  it  well  might,  the 
wrath  not  only  of  the  Sabines,  but  of  other  neighboring 
tribes,  against  this  lawless  young  community.  But  when 
these  latter  marched  their  forces  against  him,  Romulus 
defeated  them  all  in  succession,  slaying  and  stripping 
with  his  own  hand  the  chief  of  the  Cseninans  (Aero, 
Plutarch  tells  us,  was  his  name),  and  solemnly  offering 
the  spoils  in  the  temple  of  Jupiter  on  the  Capitol — the 
first  of  those  spolta  optima,  as  they  were  afterwards  called, 
won  by  one  general  from  the  person  of  another.  The 
Sabines  proved  a  more  formidable  enemy.  They  had 
actually  forced  their  way  into  Rome,  and  a  fierce  con¬ 
flict  within  the  walls  was  being  waged  with  doubtful 
success,  when  the  captured  women — already  reconciled 
to  their  compulsory  bridegrooms — rushed  between  the 
lines,  and  entreated  their  fathers  and  husbands  not  to 
shed  each  other’s  blood.  The  result  was  not  only  peace, 
but  a  fusion  of  the  two  peoples;  and  in  compliment  to 
their  new  friends,  the  Romans  took  the  additional  mime 
of  Quirites,  from  the  Sabine  town  of  Cures  #r  Quiris; 
and  it  was  agreed  that  the  nation  should  form  three 
tribes, — the  Ramnenses,  taking  its  name  from  Romu¬ 
lus;  the  Titienses,  from  Tatius,  king  of  the  Sabines; 
while  for  the  third,  the  Luce  res,  Livy  can  find  no  deri¬ 
vation. 

The  rest  of  this  first  Book  contains  the  history,  or 
rather  the  series  of  legends  which  passed  for  history,  of 
Rome  under  its  seven  kings.  Romulus,  after  reducing 
to  subjection  the  neighboring  towns  of  Fidenseand  Yeii, 
disappeared  in  a  violent  storm,  said  the  popular  fable, 
and  was  seen  no  more  upon  earth.  Some  would  have 
it,  says  the  historian,  that  he  was  made  away  with — 


22 


livt. 


“torn  limb  from  limb” — by  the  senate,  with  whom 
he  was  never  popular,  although  the  darling  of  the 
army.  He  was  succeeded  by  Numa  Pompilius,  a 
Sabine  from  Cures,  the  law-maker  of  the  new  common¬ 
wealth,  as  Romulus  had  been  its  conquering  hero. 
He  was  the  Alfred  of  Roman  history,  civilizing  liis 
rude  subjects,  reforming  their  calendar,  and  dividing 
the  country  into  cantons.  His  reign  of  forty-three 
years  was  purely  peaceful — a  new  age  of  gold.  To 
him  succeeded  Tullus  Hostilius,  who  reduced  Alba, 
the  mother-city  of  Rome,  into  subjection  to  the  younger 
but  stronger  power.  To  this  war  belongs  the  pictur¬ 
esque  legend  of  the  combat  between  the  three  brothers 
on  each  side — the  Horatii  for  the  Romans,  and  Curiatii 
on  the  Alban  side — with  the  fatal  blow  given  by  the  one 
surviving  Horatius  to  his  sister,  when,  instead  of  wel¬ 
coming  him  after  his  victory,  she  meets  him  with  tears 
of  regret  for  her  lover  whom  he  has  slain. 

The  razing  to  the  ground  of  the  walls  of  Alba,  when 
its  whole  population  has  been  transplanted  to  the 
younger  city  after  the  victory,  is  told  in  Livy’s  best 
style,  though  we  must  suppose  that  he  is  indebted,  at 
least  for  the  details,  to  his  own  imagination. 

“Then  the  legions  were  marched  up  to  raze  the  city.  When 
they  entered  the  gates,  there  was  none  of  the  tumult  or  panic 
which  is  wont  to  be  seen  in  captured  towns,  where  the  gates  have 
been  forced,  or  the  walls  breached  by  battering-rams,  or  the  cita¬ 
del  taken  by  storm ;  when  the  shouts  of  the  enemy  are  loud,  and 
the  rush  of  armed  troops  through  the  city  lays  everything  waste 
with  fire  and  sword.  But  a  gloomy  silence,  and  a  sorrow  that 
found  no  voice,  so  overwhelmed  the  hearts  of  all,  that  for  very 
terror  they  forgot  what  they  meant  to  carry  away  and  what  to 
leave  behind;  losing  all  presence  of  mind,  they  kept  questioning 
each  other,  now  standing  idly  in  their  doorways,  now  wandering 
helplessly  through  their  houses,  which  they  knew  they  should 
never  see  again.  But  when  the  shouts  of  the  mounted  guard, 


ROME  UNDER  ITS  SEVEN  KINGS.  23 


who  were  ordering  them  to  quit,  came  nearer,  and  they  heard 
the  crash  of  the  buildings  which  were  already  being  pulled  down 
in  the  outer  quarters  of  the  town,  and  saw  the  dust  rising  from 
distant  points,  and  filling  the  whole  place  as  it  were  with  an  over¬ 
shadowing  cloud— then,  snatching  up  and  carrying  off  each  what 
came  first  to  hand,  they  made  their  way  out,  leaving  their  hearths 
and  household  altars,  and  the  roof  under  which  they  had  been 
born  and  brought  up,  and  filled  the  roads  with  a  continuous 
stream  of  emigrants.  The  sight  of  each  other’s  misery  renewed 
their  tears;  and  piteous  were  the  wailings  heard,  especially  from 
the  women,  as  they  passed  the  temples  they  so  venerated,  now 
surrounded  with  guards  of  soldiers,  and  left,  as  it  seemed,  their 
very  gods  in  captivity.  When  all  the  Alban  population  had  quit¬ 
ted  the  place,  the  Romans  levelled  to  the  ground  every  building, 
public  and  private,  and  gave  to  utter  destruction  in  a  single  hour 
the  work  of  four  hundred  years,  the  time  during  which  Alba  had 
stood.  Only  the  temples  of  the  gods  were  left  untouched,  for 
such  had  been  the  king’s  command.” — (i.  29.) 

The  fourth  king  was  Ancus  Martius — less  warlike 
than  Romulus,  less  peaceful  than  Numa.  Under  him 
the  Aventine  hill  was  included  within  the  walls,  and  the 
Janiculum  thrown  out  on  the  northern  bank  of  the 
Tiber,  and  successful  wars  with  the  neighboring  tribes 
marked  the  still  growing  power  of  Rome. 

And  now  there  comes  in,  according  to  the  legends 
which  the  historian  followed,  a  new  dynasty  of  kings, 
and  for  the  first  time  the  annals  of  Greece  and  Rome 
are  brought  for  a  moment  into  connection.  The  story 
of  the  Tarquins,  as  Livy  tells  it,  is  briefly  this:  One 
Demaratus,  a  Corinthian,  had  emigrated  during  a  po¬ 
litical  revolution  and  settled  at  Tarquinii.  His  son 
Lucumo  had  married  an  Etruscan  wife  of  high  family 
and  imperious  spirit;  and  she  could  not  bear  to  see  her 
husband  looked  down  upon  as  a  foreigner  and  an  alien. 
She  persuaded  him  to  remove  to  Rome — ‘  ‘  amongst  a 
new  people  energy  and  merit  must  make  their  way:” 
and  an  omen — an  eagle  which  took  off  her  husband’s 


24 


LIVY. 


cap  and  replaced  it,  as  they  entered  the  city  gates — con¬ 
firmed  her  advice.  In  the  course  of  time  King  Ancus 
died;  and  though  he  left  two  sons,  Lucumo  (or  Lucius 
Tarquinius,  as  the  new  Roman  citizen  now  called  him¬ 
self),  already  popular  owing  to  his  wealth  and  his  gra¬ 
cious  manners,  was  elected  king.  The  new  reign  was 
prosperous;  the  old  enemies  of  Rome,  the  Latins  and 
Sabines,  were  successfully  held  in  check;  the  cavalry 
force  of  the  state  was  strengthened,  the  city  w&lls  com¬ 
pleted,  and  those  great  public  sewers  which  are  even 
now  the  wonder  of  all  beholders  were  begun.  But  the 
disappointed  sons  of  Ancus  had  bided  their  time,  and 
they  slew  the  foreigner.  Their  father’s  sceptre,  how¬ 
ever,  passed  into  other  hands.  A  boy  had  been  brought 
up  in  the  house  of  Tarquinius,  the  son  of  a  slave  mother, 
on  whose  head  while  sleeping  lambent  flames  had  been 
seen  to  play.  Tanaquil’s  divining  eyes  saw  in  the  pro. 
digy  an  intimation  of  his  future  eminence:  his  abilities 
as  he  grew  up  confirmed  it,  and  he  had  become  their  son- 
in-law.  To  him  Tanaquil  appealed  after  her  husband’s 
assassination;  and  they  concealed  his  actual  death  from 
the  people  until  the  son-in-law,  Servius  Tullius,  who  at 
once  assumed  the  royal  functions,  was  securely  estab¬ 
lished  in  power,  and  the  sons  of  Ancus  had  to  take 
refuge  in  exile. 

To  the  reign  of  Servius — the  “  King  of  the  Commons” 
— the  historian  attributes  certain  changes  in  the  consti¬ 
tution  of  a  more  or  less  popular  character.  He  is  said 
to  have  instituted  the  “census”  of  property,  and  to 
have  divided  the  people  into  “classes”  and  “centuries,” 
in  such  a  way  as  to  give  the  plebeians  what  they  had 
not  before,  a  distinct  organization  as  a  component  part 
of  the  state,  and  make  the  burden  of  military  service 
press  more  equally  upon  rich  and  poor.  He  also  allotted 


ROME  UNDER  ITS  SEVEN  KINGS.  25 


to  the  poorer  citizens  some  of  the  land  taken  from  their 
neighboring  enemies  in  war.  In  his  reign,  it  was  said, 
the  city  was  extended  to  three  new  hills — the  Quirinal, 
the  Yiminal,  and  the  Esquiline — and  the  whole  sur¬ 
rounded  by  walls  which  continued  to  bear  his  name,  and 
to  form  the  boundaries  of  the  city  for  some  eight  hun¬ 
dred  years,  down  to  the  time  of  the  Emperor  Aurelian. 
But  the  new  king’s  daughters  had  married  the  two  sons 
of  his  predecessor  Tarquinius ;  and  the  younger,  Tullia, 
after  murdering  her  own  husband,  had  married  his  elder 
brother  Lucius,  who  had  made  room  for  her  by  the 
murder  of  his  wife.  With  her  full  consent,  her  new 
husband  plotted  with  other  young  nobles,  who  hated 
the  Commons’  King,  to  murder  him  and  take  his  place. 
The  plot  was  successful;  Servius  was  flung  down  the 
steps  of  the  senate-house  by  his  son-indaw’s  hand,  and 
despatched  by  his  retainers. 

"  It  was  believed  that  this  was  done  at  the  instigation  of  Tullia, 
inasmuch  as  she  did  not  shrink  from  the  wickedness  that  followed. 
At  least,  it  is  an  admitted  fact  that  she  drove  in  her  chariot  to  the 
Forum,  unabashed  by  the  crowd  of  men,  and  summoning  her 
husband  from  the  senate-house  was  the  first  to  hail  him  “  king/’ 
When  he  bade  her  begone  from  such  a  scene  of  tumult,  and  she 
was  making  her  way  home,  she  ordered  her  chariot  to  turn  to  the 
right  down  the  Orbian  Hill,  so  as  to  drive  out  through  the  Esqui¬ 
line;  when’ the  man  who  drove  her  horses  suddenly  stopped  in 
horror,  checked  the  reins,  and  pointed  out  to  his  mistress  the 
body  of  the  murdered  Servius  lying  in  the  road.  Whereupon  a 
foul  and  inhuman  deed  is  said  to  have  been  done,  and  the  place 
s  ;rves  yet  as  a  memorial  of  it  (men  call  it  the  Accursed  Quarter, 
Vicus  Scelercitios),  along  which  in  her  madness,  urged  by  the 
avenging  shades  of  her  murdered  sister  and  husband,  Tullia  is 
said  to  have  driven  her  chariot  over  the  corpse  of  her  father, 
and  to  have  carried  home  on  the  blood-stained  vehicle— nay,  on 
her  very  dress  and  person— the  traces  of  his  slaughter,  to  defile 
the  household  gods  of  herself  and  her  new  consort;  and  that 
from  the  wrath.  of  those  offended  powers,  the  reign  which 


26 


LIVY. 


been  so  ill  begun  was  speedily  brought  to  a  like  violent  termina¬ 
tion.”— (i.  48.) 

For  it  was  this  Lucius  Tarquinius — who  thus  seized 
the  crown,  as  Livy  says,  “  with  no  other  right  than 
force,  unauthorized  either  by  senate  or  commons” — who 
made  the  very  name  of  “king”  ever  after  hateful  to  a 
Roman  ear.  He  was  known  as  Superbus — the  Insolent. 
He  assumed  absolute  power;  surrounded  himself  with 
an  armed  guard;  forbade  all  new  elections  to  the  senate; 
and,  in  short,  played  the  tyrant  at  all  points.  But, 
tyrant  though  he  was,  he  maintained  the  power  of  Rome 
stoutly  and  successfully  against  the  neighboring  tribes. 
He  reduced  the  Volscians  by  force  and  the  town  of  Gabii 
by  stratagem,  and  made  an  advantageous  treaty  with 
the  still  powerful  confederation  of  the  Latins.  He  is 
said  also  to  have  founded  the  Temple  of  Jupiter  on  the 
Capitoline  Hill  (a  work  which  had  been  contemplated 
by  the  first  Tarquinius),  and  in  order  to  gain  room  for 
the  new  buildings,  to  have  removed,  with  their  own 
consent,  the  temples  and  altars  of  all  the  other  deities 
who  had  been  hitherto  established  there.  Two  only, 
when  consulted  by  the  augurs,  refused  to  abandon  their 
ancient  seat — Terminus  and  Juventas;  a  refusal  which 
was  naturally  taken  as  a  most  happy  omen,  that  the 
boundaries  of  Rome  should  never  grow  narrower,  and 
that  her  youth  and  vigor  should  be  perpetual.  It  is 
plain  that  under  the  guise  of  this  new  foundation  and 
removal  we  have  a  notice,  however  vague,  of  some 
radical  change  in  the  national  religion,  and  probably  of 
•  the  introduction,  under  the  house  of  the  Tarquinii,  of 
the  Etruscan  divinities  and  their  sacred  rites. 

The  reign  of  the  second  Tarquinius  ended,  as  it  began, 
in  violence.  The  outrage  committed  by  his  son  Sextus 
on  Tdicretia,  wif§  qf  gellatinus,  an^  the  wbole  tragical 


ROME  UNDER  ITS  SEVEN  KINGS.  27 


story  of  her  suicide  and  the  revenge  taken  by  her  hus¬ 
band  and  father,  is  an  episode  of  Roman  history  known 
to  most  readers.  It  is  told  briefly  enough,  but  not  the 
less  graphically,  in  the  conclusion  of  Livy’s  first  Book. 
But  it  is  neither  the  father  nor  the  husband  to  whom  the 
annalist  ascribes  the  leading  part  in  the  great  revolution 
which  followed.  It  is  Lucius  Junius,  a  nephew  of  the 
royal  house,  called  “  Brutus”  from  his  singular  stolidity 
and  apathy — assumed,  we  are  told,  to  make  his  position 
all  the  safer  under  a  tyrant’s  reign — to  whom  an  oracle 
has,  according  to  his  own  interpretation,  foretold  suc¬ 
cession  to  the  chief  power  at  Rome. 

“  While  they  stood  wrapped  in  grief,  he  drew  the  knife  from 
the  body  of  Lucretia,  and  holding  it  up  before  him  dripping  with 
her  blood,  said—1*  By  this  blood,  most  chaste  and  undefiled  before 
this  outrage  of  a  tyrant,  I  swear— and  I  call  you,  ye  gods,  to  wit¬ 
ness— that  I  will  follow  up  with  fire  and  sword,  and  all  such 
means  as  in  us  lie,  Lucius  Tarquinius  Superbus  and  his  accursed 
wife,  with  all  their  seed  and  breed;  and  never  suffer  either  them 
or  any  other  hereafter  to  reign  as  king  at  Rome.  ’  ’  Then  he  hands 
the  knife  to  Collatinus,  and  then  to  Lucretius  and  Valerius,  who 
marvelled  at  the  strangeness  of  the  thing,  whence  this  new  spirit 
had  come  into  the  breast  of  Brutus.  As  they  were  bidden,  so 
they  swore:  and  at  once  from  that  moment,  when  Brutus  calls 
on  them  to  drive  out  the  tyrants,  they  follow  him  as  their  leader.” 
-(i.  59.) 

This  story  of  the  Tarquins  presents  all  the  charac¬ 
teristics  of  legend,  even  without  taking  into  account  the 
many  practical  contradictions  involved  in  it  by  the 
dates  of  their  respective  reigns.  Yet  it  is  quite  as 
impossible  to  doubt  that  under  this  legend,  however 
disguised,  we  have  the  record  of  some  very  important 
changes  in  the  fortunes  of  Rome.  There  is  almost 
certainly  a  change  in  the  dynasty,  and  probably  a  tem¬ 
porary  subjugation  of  Rome  to  the  Etruscans.  The 
massive  character  of  the  masonry  in  the  substructure  of 


28 


LIVY. 


the  temple  on  the  Capitoline,  and  that  of  the  Cloaca 
Maxima,  both  said  to  have  been  built  under  the  rule  of 
the  Tarquins,  and  which  are  evidently  of  very  early 
date,  marks  it  as  almost  certainly  Etruscan.  Nor  is 
there  any  reason  to  doubt  that  the  name  of  the  Tarquinii 
is  historical,  however  much  the  history  of  their  rule  at 
Rome  may  be  overlaid  with  fable.  A  tomb  was  dis¬ 
covered  in  the  year  1849  at  Caere,  in  Etruria  (to  which 
town  the  banished  family  are  said  by  Livy  to  have 
retired  after  their  expulsion  from  Rome),  containing 
thirty-five  names,  among  which  both  the  Etruscan 
form,  Tarchnas,  and  the  Latin  Tarquinius,  repeatedly 
occur.* 

This  story  of  the  Tarquins,  in  whatever  condition  he 
found  it,  must  have  had  a  great  attraction  for  a  writer 
like  Livy.  The  functions  of  an  historical  novelist  were 
exactly  to  his  mind;  and  we  may  be  sure  that  he  has 
made  \he  most  of  all  the  picturesque  points  in  the 
legend.  That  some  of  it  was  originally  borrowed  from 
Greek  sources  is  plain  from  two  instances  which  we 
happen  to  be  able  to  trace.  The  stratagem  by  which 
young  Sextus  Tarquinius  gets  admission  into  the  town 
of  Gabii,  in  order  to  betray  it  to  his  father — by  repre¬ 
senting  himself  as  a  fugitive  from  nis  father’s  cruelty — 
is  evidently  founded  upon  the  story  which  Herodotus 
tells,  in  its  more  romantic  Eastern  shape,  of  the  strange 
devotion  shown  to  King  Darius  by  one  of  his  generals, 
Zopyrus,  who  “  cut  off  his  ears  and  his  nose,”  and  pre¬ 
sented  himself  in  that  condition  at  the  gates  of  Babylon 
as  a  refugee  from  the  cruelty  of  his  master;  to  whom  he 
opens  the  gates  as  soon  as  he  has  obtained  the  command 
of  the  garrison,  f  So  again,  with  the  subtle  parable  by 


*  See  Dennis,  Cities  of  Etruria,  ii.  44. 


t  Herod,  iii.  154, 


GROWTH  OF  THE  REPUBLIC. 


29 


which  Tarquinius  Superbus  conveys  his  advice  to  his 
son  as  to  his  policy  at*  Gabii.  He  dares  not  trust  a  verbal 
reply  to  the  messenger  whom  Sextus  has  sent  to  ask 
counsel: 

“  The  king,  as  in  the  process  of  deliberation,  walked  out  Into 
the  gardens  of  his  palace,  followed  by  his  son’s  messenger. 
There,  as  he  paced  along  in  silence,  he  is  said  to  have  knocked  off 
the  heads  of  the  tallest  poppies  with  his  staff.  The  messenger, 
tired  at  last  of  asking  for  a  reply  and  waiting  in  vain,  went  back 
to  Gabii  with  his  errand,  as  he  considered,  unsped,  and  related 
what  he  had  said,  and  what  the  king  had  done.  ‘  Whether  it  was 
anger,  or  personal  dislike,  or  the  innate  haughtiness  of  his  dis¬ 
position,  he  had  answered  never  a  word.’  ” — (i.  54.) 

The  son,  however,  understood  his  father’s  meaning  at 
once,  and  acted  upon  it:  he  was  to  take  off  the  heads 
of  all  such  citizens  as,  from  their  eminence,  might  be¬ 
come  dangerous  rivals.  It  is  the  very  same  story  as 
that  which  Herodotus  tells  of  the  silent  hint  given  by 
Thrasybulus,  tyrant  of  Miletus,  to  the  messenger  of 
Periander,  except  that,  in  the  Greek  version,  the  sym¬ 
bolic  operation  takes  place  in  a  field  of  ripe  corn.* 


CHAPTER  III. 

GROWTH  OP  THE  REPUBLIC. 

(BOOKS  ii. -III.  B.c.  509-449.) 

We  are  yet  on  no  safe  historic  ground.  The  early 
annals  of  the  Republic,  from  whatever  sources  our 
author  derived  them — oral  tradition,  poetical  romance, 
or  prose  chronicle — are  manifestly  as  full  of  legends  as 
those  of  the  Kings.  We  have  to  receive  with  much 


*  Herod,  v.  92, 


30 


LIVY. 


caution  the  remarks  with  which  Livy  introduces  this 
new  period — that  the  birth  of  Roman  liberty  (for  such 
he  considers  it)  came  at  exactly  the  right  moment; 
that  the  kings  had  done  their  work  in  the  foundation 
and  enlargement  of  the  city;  and  that  for  the  people  of 
Rome  in  their  ruder  state  such  liberty  would  have  been 
premature.  Livy  is  at  no  time  a  philosophical  historian, 
and  his  grounds  for  the  conclusion  in  this  case  are  so 
uncertain,  that  its  value  is  not  great.  We  have  still  to 
follow  his  narrative — with  what  faith  we  may. 

The  house  of  the  Tarquins  were  banished  from  the 
Roman  territory;  there  property  was  confiscated;  their 
land,  which  lay  between  the  city  and  the  Tiber,  was 
consecrated  to  Mars,  and  became  the  Campus  Martius; 
and  from  that  time  forth  the  bitterest  accusation  that 
could  be  brought  against  a  Roman  citizen  was  that  he 
sought  to  make  himself  a  “king.”  Lucius  Junius 
Brutus  and  Tarquinius  Collatinus  were  at  once  elected 
chief  magistrates  by  the  assembled  people;  and  the 
annalist  gives  them  the  style  and  title  of  “Consuls” — 
an  office  which  survived  in  name  at  Rome  even  under 
its  emperors,  long  after  its  real  authority  had  ceased.* 
But  so  strong  was  the  public  feeling  against  the  whole 
name  and  race  of  the  tyrants — “who  had  made  of  Roman 
citizens,”  men  said,  “  laborers  and  stone-cutters  instead 
of  warriors,”  and  had  slain  their  good  king  Servius — 
that  Collatinus  found  his  own  near  relationship  to  the 
house  fatal  to  his  popularity.  He  soon  resigned  his 
office,  and  withdrew  into  voluntary  exile  at  Lavinium. 
His  successor  Valerius,  a  few  years  later,  fell  under 
popular  suspicion  on  similar  grounds.  He  was  building 


*  But  the  name  is  an  anticipation;  they  were  really  called 
“  Praetors”— Headmen— then  and  for  many  years  after. 


GROWTH  OF  THE  REPUBLIC. 


81 


a  house,  men  said,  too  grand  for  a  private  citizen :  he  was 
aiming  at  regal  state.  He  had  to  pull  down  his  new 
mansion,  and  even  then  found  some  difficulty  in  clear¬ 
ing  himself  in  the  eyes  of  the  public. 

The  banished  family,  however,  was  not  without  its 
friends  in  the  city.  Certain  of  the  young  patricians,  we 
are  told,  regretted  the  licence  which  they  had  enjoyed 
under  a  despotic  and  profligate  government;  and  they 
conspired  to  bring  the  king  back.  The  conspiracy  was 
discovered;  and  amongst  the  guilty  were  two  sons  of  the 
new  magistrate,  Brutus.  All  were  led  out  to  execution, 
the  sons  receiving  their  sentence  from  the  lips  of  their 
father.  For  some  reason — possibly  that  he  doubted  the 
story — Livy  does  not  dwell  upon  a  scene  which  offered 
a  grand  opportunity  for  his  powers  of  description.  He 
says  little  more  than  that,  when  the  young  men  were 
bound  to  the  stake  to  be  “beaten  with  rods,”  as  was 
the  cruel  Roman  custom,  previous  to  execution,  “all 
eyes  were  watching  the  expression  of  the  father’s  face, 
whose  natural  feelings  still  broke  out  in  the  midst  of 
this  discharge  of  his  public  duty.” 

Tarquinius  now  sought  aid  from  his  countrymen 
the  Etruscans — from  Yeii,  the  old  enemy  of  Rome, 
and  from  Tarquinii.  The  battle  which  ensued  brought 
no  decided  success  to  either  side.  His  son  Aruns 
spurred  his  horse  in  front  of  the  lines  against  Brutus, 
with  a  taunting  challenge,  which  the  consul  did  not 
decline;  and  both  fell  by  each  other’s  hand — the  first 
slain  in  the  battle.  The  cause  of  the  exiles  was  then 
taken  up  by  a  chief  whose  name  has  become  familiar 
to  us  in  Macaulay’s  spirited  lay,  “Lars  Porsena  of 
Clusium.”  “Never  yet  had  such  a  panic  seized  the 
senate,”  says  the  annalist;  “so  great  was  then  the 
power  of  Clusium,  so  renowned  the  name  of  Porsena,” 


32 


LIVY. 


With  levies  raised  from  all  the  Etruscan  towns,  over 
which  he  appears  to  have  exercised  a  sort  of  suzer¬ 
ainty,  he  appeared  before  Rome,  and  made  himself 
master  of  the  Janiculum — the  suburb  outside  the 
Tiber — at  the  first  rush.  Unless  the  bridge  which 
connected  it  with  the  city  proper  could  be  at  once 
destroyed,  Porsena  would  be  across.  Then  it  was 
that  Horatius  Codes,  with  two  comrades,  volunteered 
to  keep  the  enemy  at  bay  until  the  bridge  could  be  cut 
down.  How  he  stood  there  facing  the  host  of  Etruscans 
— alone  at  last,  for  his  two  comrades  had  crossed,  in 
obedience  to  loud  warnings  from  their  friends  on  the 
other  side,  as  the  last  plank  was  falling — how  he  leapt 
into  the  Tiber,  all  armed  as  he  was,  and  swam  safe 
across  amidst  a  shower  of  missiles — Livy  has  told  well, 
and  Macaulay,  to  our  English  ears,  perhaps  even  better. 

Porsena  turned  the  siege  into  a  blockade,  and  pro¬ 
visions  grew  scarce  in  the  city.  This  gives  occasion 
again  for  one  of  those  anecdotes  of  self-devotion  of 
which  the  Roman  annals  are  full,  and  which  Livy 
delights  to  tell.  A  youth  of  noble  birth,  named 
Mucius,  obtained  leave  from  the  senate  to  enter  the 
enemy’s  lines  in  disguise — “not  for  plunder,”  he  said, 
“but  for  a  deed  of  higher  mark,  with  the  help  of  the 
gods.”  His  object  was  the  assassination  of  Porsena; 
but,  not  knowing  his  person,  and  afraid  to  ask,  he 
killed  his  secretary  by  mistake. 

“  He  was  moving  off,  making  a  way  for  himself  through  the 
crowd  with  his  bloody  weapon,  when  the  clamor  made  the  king’s 
guards  run  up,  who  seized  him  and  dragged  him  back.  Set  be¬ 
fore  the  king  where  he  sat  in  state,  even  in  that  imminent  peril 
he  spoke  as  if  the  king,  and  not  he,  had  need  to  tremble.  ‘I 
am  a  citizen  of  Rome;  men  call  me  Caius  Mucius.  I  sought  to 
slay  mine  enemy.  And  I  have  as  good  heart  to  suffer  death  as 
I  had  to  inflict  it:  our  Roman  fashion  is  to  do  and  suffer  stoutly. 


GROWTH  OF  THE  REPUBLIC. 


38 


Nor  is  it  I  alone  who  bear  in  my  mind  this  intent  toward  thee: 
there  follows  after  me  a  long  succession  of  claimants  for  this 
glory.  Wherefore  prepare  thyself  at  once  for  this  conflict:  to  be 
in  jeopardy  of  life  from  hour  to  hour— to  find  an  enemy  at  the 
very  threshold  of  thy  chamber.  Such  is  the  war  we  Roman 
youth  declare  against  thee.  Thou  hast  not  to  dread  the  battle 
or  the  open  field;  the  struggle  for  thee  will  be  in  person  against 
each  single  antagonist.’  When  the  king,  alike  furious  with 
anger  and  alarmed  at  the  peril,  threatened  him  with  torture  by 
fire  unless  he  forthwith  revealed  the  plot  at  which  he  thus 
darkly  hinted— ‘Lo  here,’  said  he,  ‘that  you  may  understand 
how  cheap  they  hold  all  pains  of  the  body,  who  see  a  grand 
renown  in  prospect  ’—and  he  thrust  his  hand  into  the  fire  on  the 
altar  just  kindled  for  sacrifice.  When  he  held  it  there  to  be 
consumed,  as  quite  unconscious  of  any  sense  of  pain,  the  king, 
wellnigh  astounded  at  the  marvel,  leapt  from  his  seat  and  bade 
him  be  moved  away  from  the  altar.” — (ii.  12). 

Struck  by  such  heroism,  the  Etruscan  bade  him  go  free; 
and  Mucius — “by  way  of  thanks,”  as  Livy  somewhat 
quaintly  puts  it — warned  him  that  he  was  only  one  of 
three  hundred  Roman  youths  who  had  sworn  to  attempt 
the  same  deed.  He  was  known  afterwards  by  the  sur¬ 
name  of  Scaevola — Mucius  “of  the  Left  Hand.” 

Cold  and  dispassionate  criticism  assures  us  that  such 
tales  as  these — the  heroism  of  Horatius,  the  unflinching; 
justice  of  Brutus,  the  devotion  of  Scsevola — are  but  the 
romance  of  some  forgotten  poet,  worked  up  artistically 
for  effect,  and  borrowed  by  the  annalist  to  color  his 
pages.  Probably  the  critics  are  right.  But  these 
legends  become  history  at  least  so  far  as  this — they 
make  the  greatness  of  Rome  intelligible  to  us;  wq 
understand  how  a  people  amongst  whom  such  tradi¬ 
tions  of  national  character  were  current,  and  probably 
believed,  should  have  made  themselves  masters  of  the 
world. 

Porsena  soon  raised  the  blockade  of  Rome— startled 
by  the  revelations  of  Mucius,  as  the  annalist  would 


84 


LIVY. 


have  us  believe but  lie  confesses  that  the  Homans  had 
to  make  terms  with  him,  in  which  the  advantage  was 
not  wholly  on  their  side.  They  refused  to  receive  back 
the  Tarquins;  but  they  had  to  covenant  to  restore  to 
Veii  some  of  its  lands  of  which  they  had  taken  posses¬ 
sion  after  its  conquest  by  Romulus,  and  to  give  hostages 
for  the  fulfilment  of  this  engagement,  before  Porsena 
would  withdraw  his  troops  from  the  Janiculum.* 

But  Rome  had  not  yet  heard  the  last  of  the  Tarquins. 
The  old  king  had  taken  refuge  at  Tusculum,  with  his 
son-in-law  Mamilius.  A  war  which  had  long  been 
brooding  with  the  great  Latin  confederacy  at  last  broke 
out — “thirty  nations,”  according  to  the  “Annals,”  hav¬ 
ing  leagued  under  Mamilius  against  Rome.  It  was  in 
this  emergency  that  the  Romans  first  had  recourse  to 
the  appointment  of  a  Dictator;  in  whose  hands  was 
vested  an  absolute  authority,  civil  and  military,  the 
powers  of  the  consuls  passing  into  abeyance  for  the 
time.  Young  Lucius  Tarquin,  at  the  head  of  a  body  of 
cavalry  formed  of  Roman  exiles,  fought  in  the  ranks  of 
the  enemy;  and  in  a  great  battle  at  the  Lake  Regillus, 
the  aged  king  himself  rode  among  them,  and  was 
wounded.  The  battle  was  long  and  desperate.  HSbu- 
tius,  “Master  of  the  Horse,”  f  singled  out  Mamilius, 
who  was  conspicuous  by  his  brilliant  armor,  and 
engaged  him  in  single  combat,  and  wounded  him,  but 


*  There  can  be  little  doubt  but  that  Rome  was  in  fact  surren¬ 
dered  to  Porsena,  and  had  to  cede  to  the  Etruscans  all  her  terri¬ 
tory  on  the  right  bank  of  the  Tiber.  Tacitus  distinctly  says  so 
(Hist.  iii.  c.  72);  and  Pliny  mentions  that  the  same  hard  con¬ 
ditions  were  laid  upon  the  Romans  as  upon  the  Israelites  by  the 
Philistines— that  they  should  use  no  iron  except  for  implements 
of  agriculture. 

t  Second  only  in  rank  to  the  Dictator,  who  was  “  Master  of  the 
Pppple." 


GROWTH  OF  THE  REPUBLIC. 


35 


was  liimself  disabled,  and  obliged  to  retire.  So  doubt¬ 
ful  was  the  struggle,  that  Aulus  Posthumius  (who  was 
then  Dictator)  and  his  staff  had  to  dismount  and  tight 
on  foot,  in  order  to  restore  the  steadiness  of  the  Roman 
line,  and  to  give  orders  to  cut  down  every  man  who 
turned  his  back.  At  last  Herminius,  one  of  the  Dic¬ 
tator’s  lieutenants,  charged  in  person  upon  Mamilius, 
who  in  spite  of  his  wound  had  returned  into  the  battle, 
and  ran  him  through  with  his  spear — falling  himself 
mortally  wounded  immediately  after,  as  he  was  trying 
to  strip  the  bod}^.  The  Latins  gave  way,  and  the 
victory  was  complete,  their  whole  camp  and  equipage 
falling  into  the  hands  of  the  Romans.  The  elder  Tar- 
quin  retired  to  end  his  stormy  life  at  Cumae;  and  Rome 
heard  no  more  of  her  “tyrants.”  The  Dictator  and  his 
Master  of  the  Horse  returned  to  the  city  to  enjoy  the 
honors  of  a  well-earned  triumph.*  A  sort  of  negative 
peace  with  the  Latins  followed  this  defeat;  and  a  few 
years  afterwards,  when  the  Volscians  were  forming  a 
combination  against  Rome,  the  Latins  not  only  refused 
to  join  them,  but  sent  the  Yolscian  delegates  as 
prisoners  to  the  Romans.  The  latter  in  their  grati¬ 
tude,  released  600  Latins  who  were  in  their  hands  as 
prisoners  of  war.  An  amount  of  mutual  good  feeling 
was  the  result,  such  as  never,  says  the  historian,  had 
existed  between  the  Romans  and  the  Latins  before; 
and  in  the  year  of  Rome  261  (b.c.  498),  a  treaty  was 
concluded  between  the  two  nations  on  terms  of  perfect 


*  The  reader  will  miss,  in  Livy’s  narrative,  the  appearance  of 
the  “Great  Twin  Brethren”  (Castor  and  Pollux),  who,  in 
Macaulay’s  “Lay,”  are  seen  by  the  Dictator  charging  on  white 
horses  in  front  of  the  Romans,  and  who  appear  the  same  even¬ 
ing  in  the  city,  and  tell  that  the  battle  has  been  won.  The 
legend  is  in  Dionysius  of  Halicarnassus,  vL  13. 


36 


LIVY. 


equality.  This  lands  us  upon  the  first  safe  historical 
ground;  for  the  brazen  pillar  upon  which  were  recorded 
the  lerms  of  the  treaty,  the  names  of  the  thirty  Latin 
cities  who  were  parties  to  it,  and  of  the  Roman  consul 
Spurius  Cassius  who  concluded  it,  was  still  to  be  seen 
in  the  time  of  Cicero. 

But  in  the  internal  history  of  Rome  there  were  now 
taking  place  events  which  the  annalist,  busy  with  his 
heroic  legends,  seems  only  to  touch  by  the  way,  though 
they  are  of  the  greatest  political  importance.  The 
“ plebs ,”  as  they  were  called — the  commons,  as  dis¬ 
tinguished  from  the  populus,  the  burgher-citizens — 
must  have  gradually  sunk  lower  and  lower  in  the  social 
scale,  until  their  degradation  and  misery  became  past 
endurance.  Some  inkling  of  the  growing  discontent 
is  given  us  in  the  account  of  the  preparations  made  to 
resist  the  attack  of  Porsena.  The  senate,  we  are  told, 
found  it  necessary  to  secure  the  fidelity  of  the  lower 
orders  by  certain  concessions  —  particularly  in  the 
matter  of  the  market-price  of  corn  and  the  monopoly 
of  salt.  But  at  the  date  we  have  just  reached,  a  new 
war  with  the  Volscians  was  imminent;  and  since  the 
burden  of  it  would,  as  the  commons  well  knew,  press 
with  most  hardship  upon  them,  they  took  the  oppor¬ 
tunity  to  put  forward  their  grievances  somewhat  boldly. 
The  chief  grievance  was  this, — their  utter  poverty  com¬ 
pelled  them  from  time  to  time  to  borrow  money  at  high 
interest  from  the  richer  citizens,  and  the  law  of  debtor 
and  creditor  at  Rome  was  so  monstrously  harsh,  that 
the  debtor  was  liable  not  only  to  be  sold  into  perpetual 
bondage,  but  to  be  starved  to  death  in  prison  if  his 
creditor  chose  to  withhold  the  means  of  support;  or 
even,  in  case  of  manifest  insolvency,  to  have  his  body 
cut  in  pieces  and  divided,  if  there  were  several  claim- 


GROWTH  OF  THE  REPUBLIC. 


37 


ants.  One  sketch  that  is  given  us — though  probably 
but  a  fancy  picture — sets  forth  the  condition  of  things, 
as  the  writer  intended  it  should,  far  more  graphically 
than  any  political  essay: 

“  A  man  of  reverend  years  rushed  out  into  the  Forum  bearing 
all  the  tokens  of  utter  wretchedness.  His  garments  were  miser¬ 
ably  squalid,  his  person  more  miserable  still ;  his  countenance 
was  pallid,  and  he  seemed  to  be  wasting  away  with  hunger. 
But,  through  all  this  disfigurement,  he  was  recognized  as  having 
once  held  the  rank  of  a  centurion;  and  the  spectators,  while 
they  pitied  him,  recounted  other  military  distinctions  which  he 
had  won.  Baring  his  breast,  he  showed  scars  which  bore  wit¬ 
ness  to  many  a  hard-fought  field.  When  he  was  asked  how  he 
came  to  be  in  this  miserable  dress  and  condition,  while  a  crowd 
gathered  round  him  and  formed,  as  it  were,  a  regular  audience, 
he  said  that  while  serving  in  the  Sabine  wars,  not  only  had  his 
fields  lost  their  crops  in  the  raids  made  by  the  enemy,  but  his 
homestead  had  been  burnt,  his  goods  and  chattels  plundered, 
and  his  cattle  driven  off;  and  the  war-tax  coming  upon  him  at 
this  unlucky  time,  he  had  contracted  debts.  These  had  been 
swelled  by  exorbitant  interest:  first  he  had  been  stripped  of  the 
farm  which  his  father  and  grandfather  had  held  before  him,  then 
of  all  his  other  property;  at  last  the  ruin,  like  a  plague,  had 
reached  his  person.  He  had  been  thrown  by  his  creditor,  not 
into  ordinary  bondage,  but  into  the  liard-labor  house  and  the 
dungeon.  And  he  showed  his  back,  scored  with  the  marks  of 
!  recent  scourging.”— (ii.  23). 

' 

The  scene  and  the  speech  may  be  alike  imaginary, 
but  there  is  no  reason  to  question  its  truth  as  an  illus¬ 
tration.  The  excitement,  long  pent  up,  was  terrible. 
The  Yolscians  were  said  to  be  on  their  march  to  Rome; 
and  the  commons — “so  entirely,”  says  the  historian, 
“was  the  state  now  severed  into  two” — saw  in  them 
only  deliverers.  “The  gods  were  coming  to  take 
1  vengeance  on  their  oppressors  the  patricians.”  They 
•  refused  to  give  in  their  names  for  enrolment  in  the 
legions.  The  magistrates  were  obliged  to  temporize 


38 


LIVY. 


and  make  promises:  the  commons  at  last  fell  into 
their  ranks,  marched  out  with  the  consul,  and  “  never 
fought  better,”  we  are  told,  as  the  Yolscians  found  to 
their  cost. 

But  the  law  of  debt  had  been  relaxed  only  to  be  re¬ 
enacted  more  strictly.  The  indignant  commons  held 
nightly  meetings,  and  again  refused  to  enlist.  The 
leading  men  in  the  senate  were  divided  as  to  the  policy 
to  be  pursued.  A  Dictator  was  appointed,  who  ap¬ 
peased  the  malcontents  for  a  time  by  some  remedial 
measures.  But  the  distress  and  the  consequent  dis¬ 
content  still  went  on,  until  in  the  fifteenth  year  of  the 
Republic  it  ended  in  open  insurrection.  The  national 
force  had  been  ordered  to  march  out  against  the  iEqui- 
ians — a  mere  pretext,  the  commons  thought,  to  get 
them  out  of  the  city,  and  so  bring  them  under  military 
law.  They  mutinied  at  once,  and  at  first  clamored  for 
the  blood  of  the  consuls.  One  of  the  more  temperate 
leaders,  Sicinius,  induced  them  to  take  a  milder  course. 
Under  his  orders,  they  intrenched  themselves  in  a  posi¬ 
tion  across  the  Anio,  known  as  the  Sacred  Hill,  three 
miles  from  the  city,  and  outside  the  territory  of  the 
burghers.  There  they  remained  some  days,  and  were 
contemplating  an  entire  secession  from  Rome,  and  the 
founding  of  a  city  of  their  own.  They  were  aiming,  as 
yet,  only  at  release  from  oppression,  not  at  political 
power.  The  patricians  were  alarmed,  and  sent  to  treat 
with  them,  choosing,  as  an  envoy  likely  to  be  accept¬ 
able,  one  Menenius  Agrippa,  himself  of  plebeian  origin. 
His  harangue  to  the  insurgents  was  couched,  says  our 
author,  in  “the  rough  and  primitive  style  of  those 
days  ” — not  in  the  polished  sentences  which  (in  the 
interests  of  good  taste,  as  he  would  probably  have 
pleaded)  lie  usually  puts  into  the  mouths  of  all  big 


GROWTH  OF  THE  REPUBLIC. 


39 


speakers,  plebeian  and  patrician  alike,  in  the  primitive 
days  of  Rome  as  in  the  days  of  its  highest  civilization. 
It  is  possible  that,  in  this  exceptional  case,  we  have 
Agrippa’s  speech  nearly  as  it  was  spoken.  He  told  his 
hearers,  without  any  kind  of  preface  or  exposition,  the 
now  well-known  fable  of  “The  Belly  and  its  Members.” 
The  moral  was  obvious — that  neither  section  of  the 
body  politic  could  subsist  without  the  other;  and  the 
warning  is  said  to  have  been  effectual. 

The  commons  consented  to  return,  on  condition  that 
hereafter  their  interests  should  be  guarded  by  officers 
of  their  own,  chosen  by  themselves  and  from  among 
themselves,  to  whom  there  should  be  an  appeal  from 
any  sentence  of  the  consul,  who  should  have  free  lib¬ 
erty  of  speech  in  defence  of  their  order,  and  whose  per¬ 
sons  should  be  held  sacred  and  inviolable.  These  new 
officers  were  called  “Tribunes  of  the  people.”  There 
was  also  conceded,  though  strangely  enough  Livy  does 
not  mention  it,  a  general  remission  for  insolvent  debtors, 
and  the  release  of  all  who  were  held  in  bondage. 

Such  was  the  first  step  of  that  gradual  progress  of  the 
middle  class  to  political  power,  which  marks  from  this 
time  the  internal  history  of  Rome.  It  was  grudgingly 
recognized  by  the  patricians,  and  attempts  were  soon 
made  on  their  part  to  win  back  the  ground  that  had 
been  lost.  A  season  of  scarcity  had  followed,  and  a 
large  importation  of  wheat  from  Sicily  had  been  made 
by  great  exertions  of  the  public  officers.  Caius  Marcius, 
a  successful  general  who  had  just 

“Fluttered  the  Volscians  in  Corioli,” 

and  thus  received  the  surname  of  “  Coriolanus,”  pro¬ 
posed  to  sell  this  corn  at  a  reduction  to  the  poorer  citi¬ 
zens,  on  the  condition  that  they  would  renounce  their 


40 


LIVT. 


newly -gained  privileges.  He  narrowly  escaped  the 
popular  fury;  and  the  tribunes,  in  the  exercise  of  their 
prerogative,  impeached  him  of  treason  against  the  lib¬ 
erties  of  the  people.  He  preferred  to  trust  the  generosity 
of  liis  enemies  rather  than  the  verdict  of  his  country¬ 
men;  and  before  the  day  of  trial  came,  he  had  taken 
refuge  with  Attius,  chief  of  the  Voiscians.  He  en¬ 
couraged  that  tri*be  to  take  up  arms  against  Rome 
afresh;  and  under  his  able  leadership  they  soon  recov¬ 
ered  many  of  their  lost  towns,  and  at  last  pitched  their 
camp  within  five  miles  of  Rome.  The  commons,  still 
dissatisfied,  showed  once  more  an  unwillingness  to 
fight,  and  the  senate  in  vain  sent  envoy  after  envoy  to 
try  to  detach  Coriolanus  from  his  unnatural  alliance. 
At  last,  says  the  legend,  his  wife  and  mother  went  out 
to  entreat  him:  to  their  prayers  he  yielded,  and  drew 
off  his  legions.  His  new  allies  soon  quarrelled  among 
themselves,  and  Rome  was  saved. 

Next  year  Spurius  Cassius,  who  had  concluded  the 
league  with  the  Latins,  was  for  the  third  time  elected 
consul.  We  are  told  that  he  now  effected  a  peace  with 
the  Hernicans,  another  powerful  and  numerous  Sabine 
people,  who  had  been  always  more  or  less  at  war  with 
Rome ;  and  that,  in  accordance  with  its  terms,  they  gave 
up  to  the  Romans  two  thirds  of  their  territory.  On 
this  occasion  he  made  a  bold  attempt  to  apply  a  remedy 
to  the  distress  of  the  poorer  citizens.  He  proposed  what 
was  then  first  known  as  an  “Agrarian  Law” — not  a 
redistribution  of  landed  property,  as  the  term  by  abuse 
is  sometimes  taken  to  mean,  but  an  allotment  in  shares 
to  the  plebeians  of  such  unenclosed  lands  belonging  to 
the  state  as  were  at  present  occupied  by  the  burghers 
as  tenants,  paying  a  low  rental  to  the  state  as  landlord. 
Against  the  opposition  of  his  fellow-consul,  he  carried 


GROWTH  OF  THE  REPUBLIC. 


41 


his  measure;  but  with  a  fatal  result  to  himself.  Under 
the  consuls  of  the  next  year  he  was  impeached.  The 
terms  m?de  by  him  with  the  Latins  and  the  Hernicans, 
it  was  said,  Had  placed  them  a\most  on  an  equality  with 
Rome  Cassius  was  making  friends  of  them  for  his  own 
ambitious  objects.  He  had  proposed,  too,  that  the 
money  lately  paid  for  the  corn  from  Sicily  should  be 
returned  to  the  poorer  citizens;  it  was  a  direct  bidding 
for  kingly  power.  The  very  populace  were  led  away 
by  this  specious  accusation.  “  So  deep-rooted  in  their 
hearts  was  their  horror  of  monarchy,”  says  the  autlidr, 
“that  they  spurned  the  offered  gift  as  indignantly  as 
though  they  were  rolling  in  plenty.”  The  popular  re¬ 
former,  too  much  in  advance  of  his  age,  was  at  once 
condemned  and  executed,  and  his  house  razed  to  the 
ground.  “He  shared  the  fate,”  says  Arnold,  “of  Agis 
and  of  Marino  Falieri.”  There  was  a  version  of  the 
story  current  which  sounds  strange  to  our  ears,  indi¬ 
cating  the  unlimited  extent  of  the  patria  potestas  at 
Rome,  exercised  by  a  father  even  over  ills  grown-up 
children;  that  this  Roman  citizen,  who  had  thrice  held 
the  highest  office  in  the  state,  was  tried,  scourged,  and 
put  to  death  by  his  own  father  sitting  in  domestic  judg¬ 
ment,  in  accordance  with  his  undoubted  right. 

Still  discontent  prevailed  among  the  commons,  and 
thefe  was  often  difficulty  in  filling  up  the  ranks  of  the 
legions.  In  one  battle  against  their  old  enemies  the 
JEquians,  it  was  said  that  the  infantry  actually  refused 
to  fight  under  Kseso,  an  unpopular  consul  of  the  great 
Fabian  house,  and  even  cursed  him  when  he  had  charged 
and  routed  the  enemy  with  his  cavalry  alone. 

It  is  the  Fabii  who  at  this  period  become  the  saviours 
of  Rome  "VVe  may  feel  sure  that  the  annalist  has  here 
supplemented  his  scanty  materials  from  the  family 


42 


LIVY. 


chronicles  of  that  house,  in  which  the  deeds  of  their 
ancestors  would  not  be  sparingly  set  forth.  It  will  be 
remembered  that  Fabius  Pictor,  who  was  Livy’s  great 
authority,  was  of  that  line  and  name.  Two  of  the 
name,  in  a  battle  with  the  men  of  Yeii,  charge  alone  in 
the  front  of  the  wavering  legion,  which  then  follows 
them  tor  very  shame.  Another  force  is  only  saved 
from  utter  disaster  by  the  coming  up  of  Kaeso  Fabius, 
when  the  rashness  of  his  colleague  has  all  but  lost  the 
day.  We  find  seven  consulships  in  succession  filled 
by  members  of  the  family.  At  last  there  comes  the 
singular  story  which  most  of  all,  perhaps,  made  their 
name  famous  in  Roman  history.  Wltetlier  it  was  that 
Kaeso  Fabius  had  made  himself  and  his  house  unpopular 
with  their  own  order,  because  he  tried  to  carry  into  effect 
the  agrarian  law  of  Cassius  by  the  division  among  the 
plebeians  of  the  newly-conquered  land,  or  whether  the 
Fabii  wished  to  establish  an  independent  military  col¬ 
ony,  or  whatever  their  real  motive  was,  they  quitted 
Rome  in  a  body.  Livy’s  own  account  scarcely  explains 
the  migration  satisfactorily.  The  hostility  of  Yeii,  he 
says,  was  not  so  much  a  serious  danger  as  a  perpetual 
harass  to  Rome.  Seeing  this,  Kseso  Fabius  (now  for  the 
third  time  consul)  made  a  proposal  in  the  senate  as 
spokesman  for  his  clan.  The  state  had  many  small  and 
troublesome  wars  on  hand,  he  said:  the  Fabii  would 
take  that  against  Ycii  entirely  on  themselves,  at  no 
cost  to  their  fellow-citizens  either  of  blood  or  money. 
It  had  become  almost  a  family  business  with  them; 
and  they  would  undertake  to  make  Rome  safe  from 
that  quarter.  So,  amid  the  thanks  of  all,  the  consul 
quitted  the  senate-house,  and  summoned  all  of  his 
clan  to  assemble  under  arms  before  his  own  house  next 
day. 


GROWTH  OF  THE  REPUBLIC . 


48 


“  Through  all  the  city  the  rumor  spreads:  all  extol  the  house 
of  Fabius  to  the  skies.  ‘  A  single  family  had  undertaken  the 
burden  of  the  state;  the  war  with  Veii  was  turned  over  to  the 
private  hands,  as  a  private  adventure  of  arms.  Were  there  but 
two  more  houses  in  the  city  of  the  like  strength,— let  one  claim 
the  Volscians,  and  the  other  the  ACquians,  for  their  portion,— the 
Roman  people  might  then  enjoy  peace  and  quiet,  and  all  the 
neighboring  tribes  be  brought  under  their  rule.’  Next  day  the 
Fabii  arm  themselves,  and  muster  at  the  place  appointed.  The 
consul  coming  forth  with  his  war-cloak  on,  sees  his  whole  clan 
drawn  up  under  arms  in  his  outer  court.  They  open  their  ranks 
to  receive  him  in  their  centre,  and  he  gives  the  word  to  march. 
Never  did  military  force  march  through  the  city  streets  so  small 
in  number,  so  great  in  renown  and  in  the  admiration  of  all  be¬ 
holders.  Six  hundred  and  six  men-at-arms— all  of  gentle  birth, 
all  of  one  house,  under  the  command  of  no  one  of  whom  need  the 
best  army  of  any  time  disdain  to  serve— went  forth,  to  attempt 
the  crushing  of  the  people  of  Veii  by  the  strength  of  their  single 
clan.  They  were  escorted  not  only  by  a  body  of  their  own  kins¬ 
men  and  friends,  prognosticating  for  them  nothing  short  of  some 
mighty  result — with  intense  hopes,  and  as  intense  misgivings; 
but  also  by  another  crowd,  collected  by  the  strong  public  anxiety 
and  deeply  affected  with  interest  and  admiration.  ‘  Go  forth,’ 
they  cried,  ‘gallant  heroes!  Blessings  go  with  you!  Bring  us 
back  the  success  your  noble  enterprise  deserves,  then  claim 
from  us  consulships  and  triumphs— all  the  rewards,  all  the  honors 
we  can  bestow  1’  As  they  passed  the  Capitol,  and  the  citadel, 
and  the  temples,  the  crowd  invoked  every  deity  whose  image 
met  their  eyes,  or  whose  name  occurred  to  their  thoughts,  ‘  to 
send  forth  that  array  with  their  blessing  and  favor— to  restore 
them  soon  in  safety  to  their  country  and  their  friends.’  But  the 
prayers  were  uttered  in  vain.” — (ii.  49.) 

They  took  up  a  position  on  the  frontier,  on  the  little 
river  Cremera,  some  three  miles  from  Rome,  and  there 
for  two  years  kept  garrison  against  Veii.  Then  they 
were  surprised,  and  cut  to  pieces  to  a  man;  one  young 
lad  only  escaping,  to  become  the  new  founder  of  the 
house  of  Fabius. 

The  agrarian  laws  long  continued  to  provoke  contests 


44 


LIVY. 


between  the  two  orders  in  the  state — the  tribunes  de¬ 
manding  their  enforcement,  and  the  consuls  resisting  it. 
In  some  instances  the  former  appear  to  have  failed  in 
their  duty,  influenced  or  overawed  by  the  powerful 
patrician  houses.  In  one  case,  a  tribune  who  had  made 
himself  too  active  was  found  dead  in  his  bed — murder¬ 
ed,  it  was  said,  by  the  unscrupulous  opponents.  At 
last,  after  many  struggles,  a  law  was  carried  which  has 
been  called  “  the  second  great  charter  of  Roman  liber¬ 
ties.”*  It  transferred  the  election  of  the  tribunes  from 
the  centuries,  in  which  all  citizens  voted,  to  the  assem¬ 
bly  of  the  tribes,  in  which  the  plebeians  alone  had 
votes.  It  was  known  as  the  Publilian  Law,  from  the 
tribune  Yolero  Publilius,  who  proposed  and  at  last 
carried  it. 

The  iEquians  from  their  strongholds  in  the  Apen¬ 
nines,  the  Yolscians  from  the  plain  and  from  the  Alban 
Hills,  were  still  pressing  from  time  to  time  on  the 
Roman  territory,  and  finding  constant  occupation  for 
its  armies.  The  account  which  Livy  gives  of  these 
campaigns  is  not  only  broken  and  confused,  but  cannot 
be  reconciled  either  with  historical  probability  or  geo¬ 
graphical  facts.  But  it  is  plain  that  the  close  of  the 
third  century  from  the  foundation  of  the  city  was  a 
period  of  more  or  less  disaster  for  Rome.  Losses  in 
war  were  accompanied  by  severe  visitations  of  pesti 
lence.  Three  times  it  broke  out  at  intervals  in  the 
space  of  ten  years,  carrying  off  on  the  last  occasion  both 
the  consuls  of  the  year,  two  out  of  the  four  augurs,  and 
an  immense  number  of  persons  of  all  ranks.  As  in  the 
case  of  the  great  plague  at  Athens,  the  crowding  within 
the  walls  of  the  city  of  thousands  of  the  country  people, 
in  order  to  escape  the  unchecked  incursion  of  the 
enemy,  made  the  place  unhealthy,  and  served  rapidly 


GROWTH  OF  THE  REPUBLIC . 


45 


to  spread  the  disease.  Dr.  Arnold  is  certainly  right  in 
detecting  the  fact  which  the  Roman  annalist  implies- 
rather  than  states — that  the  violent  dissensions  between 
the  two  orders  in  the  commonwealth  led  in  many  cases, 
as  in  that  of  Coriolanus  (possibly  also  of  the  Fabii,  as 
just  mentioned),  to  political  exile,  either  forced  or 
voluntary.  We  are  told  that,  in  the  year  of  the  city 
294,  the  Capitol  was  actually  surprised  by  a  night  at¬ 
tack,  and  held  for  some  days,  by  a  large  body  of  “  exiles 
and  slaves”  headed  by  a  Sabine  named  Appius  Herdoni- 
us,  who  not  only  offered  liberty  to  all  slaves  who  would 
join  him,  but  proclaimed  himself  generally  as  having 
come  “  to  assert  the  cause  of  the  oppressed.”  The  con¬ 
suls  feared  to  arm  the  commons  against  them;  the 
commons,  on  their  part,  declared  that  it  was  a  false 
alarm — a  mere  trick  of  their  opponents  to  divert  atten¬ 
tion  from  a  new  law  just  proposed  in  the  people’s 
interest;  and  it  was  only  when  a  strong  force  from 
Tusculum,  which  city  had  heard  of  the  danger  of 
Rome,  marched  in  to  the  aid  of  the  government,  that 
the  national  troops  were  persuaded  to  make  an  attempt 
to  recover  the  citadel.  They  succeeded  after  hard  fight¬ 
ing,  and  not  until  the  consul  who  led  them  had  been 
killed. 

The  war  with  theiEquians  at  this  time  is  made  mem 
orable  by  the  story  of  Cincinnatus.  A  Roman  army 
under  one  of  the  consuls  was  blockaded  in  its  camp; 
and  when  the  senate  met  in  hurried  council,  one  man’s 
name  was  on  the  lips  of  all,  as  “the  sole  hope  of 
Rome;”  it  was  Lucius  Quintius,  known  as  “  Cincinna¬ 
tus,”  from  his  “crisped”  hair.  Of  his  previous  history 
the  annalist  tells  us  not  enough  to  explain  what  it  yras 
which  made  the  eyes  of  all  his  countrymen  turn  to  him 
in  the  hour  of  danger.  He  and  his  son  Kseso  had  been 


46 


LIVY. 


amongst  the  bitterest  opponents  of  the  claims  of  the 
plebeians,  who  had  succeeded  in  getting  the  latter  ban¬ 
ished  on  a  charge  of  murder.  The  father  is  now  found 
ploughing  on  his  little  farm  of  some  three  acres,  stripped 
to  his  work;  and  the  state  messenger  bids  him  clothe 
himself,  that  he  may  listen  to  the  senate’s  commands  in 
decent  guise.  He  is  saluted  on  the  spot  as  Dictator — 
sole  and  absolute  governor  of  Rome  and  her  armies;  and 
is  conducted  to  the  city,  where  he  is  received  with 
shouts  of  acclamation, — the  plebeians,  however,  still 
looking  on  him  with  some  forebodings,  as  a  man  who 
had  irresponsible  authority,  and  looked  likely  to  use  it 
to  the  full.  He  takes  the  field  at  once,  blockades  the 
blockading  enemy,  reduces  them  to  surrender,  makes 
them  all  pass  under  the  yoke,  and  la}rs  down  his  dicta¬ 
torship,  after  a  rule  of  sixteen  days.  It  is  a  marvellous 
story,  and  must  be  left  as  the  annalist  tells  it.  One 
point  in  it,  even  if  literally  true,  may  not  be  nearly  so 
extraordinary  as  it  seems.  That  the  man  who  was 
chosen  to  take  the  supreme  power  at  Rome  should  have 
been  cultivating  a  small  farm  may  probably  be  a  more 
accurate  picture  of  Roman  life,  in  those  early  times, 
than  the  grander  figures  of  Roman  magistrates  and 
commanders  which  Livy  transferred  from  his  own  days 
to  those  of  the  infant  republic. 

The  commons  had  by  this  time  gained  an  important 
step  towards  independence  by  the  passing  of  the  Icilian 
Law,  by  which  so  much  of  the  Aventine  Hill  as  re¬ 
mained  unenclosed  was  lotted  out  to  them  in  freehold: 
and  the  burgher-citizens,  who  had  hitherto  enjoyed  the 
occupation  of  it  under  the  state,  had  to  give  up  their 
holdings, — for  which,  however,  they  were  to  receive 
compensation.  But  a  larger  and  more  important  meas¬ 
ure  of  reform,  which  had  been  brought  forward  by  the 


GROWTH  OF  THE  REPUBLIC. 


47 


tribunes  (whose  number  had  been  now  increased  to  ten) 
from  year  to  year,  and  as  often  postponed  owing  to  the 
determined  opposition  of  the  burghers,  was  now  about 
to  be  carried.  A  “bill” — as  we  should  term  it — had 
been  introduced  by  Terentilius,  which  was  in  effect  to 
give  Rome  a  new  constitution.  It  was  proposed  to 
choose  ten  commissioners — five  from  the  burgher-citi¬ 
zens  and  five  from  the  commons — who  should  draw  up 
a  code  of  constitutional,  civil,  and  criminal  law;  and  so 
set  at  rest  for  ever  all  questions  in  dispute  between  the 
two  parties  in  the  state.  At  last,  after  a  contest  of  ten 
years,  the  bill  was  carried — but  with  a  very  important 
modification ;  all  ten  of  the  commissioners  were  to  be 
chosen  from  the  burgher  class.  Another  fatal  outbreak 
of  pestilence,  which  carried  off  one  of  the  consuls,  four 
of  the  tribunes,  and  “threw  very  many  noble  families 
into  mourning” — to  say  nothing  of  its  ravages  in  hum¬ 
bler  quarters,  of  which  the  annalist  does  not  take  much 
account — had  perhaps  softened  political  asperities.  But 
it  was  a  fatal  concession  on  the  part  of  the  plebeian 
order,  so  far  as  the  result  was  concerned. 

Three  senators  had  been  sent  into  Greece,  to  ex¬ 
amine  the  celebrated  laws  of  Solon,  and  also  the 
legislative  systems  of  other  states,  with  a  view  to  the 
drawing  up  of  a  Roman  code.  The  Commission  of 
Ten  was  elected;  and  all  other  public  magistracies, 
consuls  and  tribunes  included,  seem  for  the  time  to 
have  been  placed  in  abeyance.  The  Ten  began  their 
work,  and  in  a  few  months  presented  the  result  in 
ten  tables  of  statutes,  on  which  they  invited  public 
criticism  and  corrections.  They  were  adopted,  and 
“remain  to  this  day,”  say  Livy,  “the  main  founda¬ 
tion  of  all  public  and  private  law.”  We  should  have  ^ 
been  thankful  to  him  had  he  given  us  some  notion  of 


48 


LIVY. 


their  contents;  but  this  kind  of  constitutional  history 
was  not  to  his  mind,  and  only  some  four  or  five  enact¬ 
ments  in  the  code  are  known  to  us  from  references  in 
the  works  of  Cicero.  But  it  was  reported — or  the  Ten 
allowed  it  to  be  understood — that  two  more  tables  were 
yet  needed  to  complete  their  work;  and  for  this  pur¬ 
pose  it  was  proposed  to  continue  the  Commission, 
subject  to  a  new  election  of  its  component  members,  for 
a  second  year.  To  this  the  plebeians  willingly  assented; 
for  by  this  time  f,‘  they  hated  the  name  of  consul  almost 
as  much  as  that  of  king/ 

Tne  leading  spirit  both  in  the  old  and  new  Commission 
was  Appiuc  Claudius.  He  is  probably  the  same  man 
(though  the  annalist  puts  him  a  generation  lower)  who, 
twenty  years  before,  as  consul,  had  been  so  hated  by 
the  army  whom  he  led  against  the  Yolscians  that  whole 
companies  threw  away  their  arms  and  refused  to  fight; 
in  punishment  for  which*  with  the  support  of  the  Latin 
smd  Hernican  troops,  and  the  stancher  burgher-com¬ 
panies,  he  had  inflicted  death  on  every  officer  whose 
company  had  fled,  and  decimated  tho  ranks  of  the  de¬ 
faulters.  Not  for  this  ostensibly — for  the  severity  was 
warranted  by  Boman  discipline — but  on  other  charges, 
he  had  been  brought  to  trial  when  his  year  of  office  had 
expired*  but  had  in  some'way  escaped.  He  now  took 
every  means  to  ingratiate  himself  with  the  commons, 
in  order  to  secure  his  re-election  amongst  the  Ten.  In 
(this  he  succeeded,  as  well  as  in  procuring  that  most  of 
his  new  colleagues  should  be  of the  ultra-aristocratic 
party. 

Them  says  Livy,  Appius  threw  off  the  mask,  and 
showed  himself  what  he  was,  and  taught  his  colleagues 
ail  the  insolence  of  power.  They  appeared  in  public  all 
at  once  with  twelve  lictors  each,  whereas  in  their  first 


GROWTH  OF  THE  REPUBLIC. 


49 


year  of  office  they  had  been  content  with  one.  “A 
hundred  and  twenty  lietors  filled  the  forum;  they 
looked  like  ten  king's” — says  the  annalyst,  to  mark  as 
strongly  as  possible  the  effect  upon  the  public.  Their 
whole  behavior  was  one  course  of  insult  and  oppres¬ 
sion.  They  brought  out  the  two  additional  tables  of 
statutes — but  it  would  appear  that  these  contained  en¬ 
actments  wholly  unlike  in  spirit  to  those  which  had 
been  issued  first.* 

When  this  second  year  of  office  was  drawing  to  its 
close,  nothing  was  heard  of  any  coming  election  of 
consuls  or  tribunes,  and  it  appeared  that  the  Decemvirs 
had  no  thought  of  resigning  their  power.  They  sur¬ 
rounded  themselves  with  bands  of  young  patricians, 
and  treated  the  commons  with  more  insolence  than  ever. 
Meanwhile  the  Roman  territory  was  being  laid  waste 
by  incursions  of  the  Sabines  and  the  iEquians.  A 
meeting  of  the  senate  was  held,  in  which  some  plain 
speaking  was  used  towards  the  new  masters  of  Rome. 
Valerius  demanded  permission  to  speak  “  on  the  ques¬ 
tion  of  the  Republic;”  and  when  this  was  refused,  pro¬ 
tested  amidst  great  confusion  that  he  would-  “go  to  the 
commons.”  Horatius  Barbatus  denounced  the  Decem¬ 
virs  as  the  “Ten  Tarquins,”  and  reminded  them  that  a 
Valerius  and  an  Horatius  had  once  already  taken  their 
part  in  ridding  Rome  of  tyrants.  Valerius  declared  that 
he  was  not  to  be  cowed  by  the  terrors  of  “imaginary 
rods  and  axes,” — implying  that  the  assumption  by  the 
Ten  of  these  emblems  of  power  was  illegal.  Appius 
ordered  his  instant  arrest;  Valerius  rushed  to  the  steps 


*  Cicero  (De  Rep.  ii.  37)  says  that  these  supplementary  tables 
contained  laws  that  were  highly  invidious;  for  instance,  declar¬ 
ing  marriages  between  patricians  and  plebeians  illegal. 


50 


LIVY. 


of  the  senate-house,  anddoudly  claimed  the  protection 
of  the  people,  and  the  quarrel  was  with  difficulty  ap¬ 
peased  by  some  of  the  other  senators,  who  dreaded  noth 
ing  so  much  as  a  popular  revolution.  Generals  were 
nominated  for  the  campaign  against  the  ^Equians  and 
Sabines;  but  the  troops  were  sullen  and  disaffected. 
The  result  was  a  defeat  in  both  quarters;  and  watch  and 
ward  had  to  be  kept  in  the  city  by  day  and  night,  in 
expectation  of  an  attack  from  the  victorious  enemy. 

The  measure  of  the  insolence  of  the  Ten  is  said  to 
have  been  filled  up  at  last,  as  in  the  case  of  the  Tar- 
quins,  by  an  outrage  upon  a  woman’s  honor.  Appius 
had  cast  his  wicked  eyes  upon  the  young  daughter  of  a 
centurion  named  Virginius,  now  serving  with  the  army. 
He  suborned  a  creature  of  his  own  to  claim  her  as  his 
escaped  bond-slave;  she  was  only  the  supposititious 
child,  he  affirmed,  of  Virginius.  Her  friends  protested, 
and  appealed  to  the  law.  The  case  was  heard — before 
Appius  as  magistrate.  He  made  of  show  of  justice:  the 
matter  should  stand  over  until  Virginius  returned  from 
service.  Then,  if  he  could  prove  she  was  his  legitimate 
daughter,  well:  meanwhile  she  must  remain  in  the  safe 
custody  of  the  master  who  had  sworn  to  her  as  his 
property.  The  meaning  of  this  was  only  too  plain. 
Her  friends  and  the  whole  of  the  crowded  court  loudly 
expressed  their  indignation.  Her  betrothed  bridegroom, 
no  less  a  person  than  Icilius,  who  when  tribune  had 
carried  the  law  for  the  allotment  of  the  Aventine  to  the 
commons — a  man  of  quiet  temper,  says  Livy,  but  now 
stung  into  fury — broke  through  the  crowd,  and  defied 
Appius  on  the  judgment-seat.  After  a  few  bitter  words 
the  Decemvir  thought  it  prudent  so  far  to  give  way,  as 
to  promise  to  await  the  arrival  of  the  father  on  the 
morrow — which  he  had  taken  steps,  as  he  hoped,  to 


uiiOWTU  OF  THE  REPUBLIC. 


51 


prevent.  But  Virginius  got  the  news,  and,  traveling  all 
the  night,  reached  Rome  next  morning.  Putting  on  a 
mourning  dress,  he  went  down  with  his  daughter  to  the 
court  in  the  Forum,  solemnly  warning  his  fellow-citizens 
that  his  cause  was  that  of  the  republic.  Surrounded  by 
a  strong  guard  of  retainers,  Appius  did  not  fear  to  give 
his  iniquitous  judgment  in  brief  terms — he  was  satisfied 
that  the  girl  was  a  slave;  her  master  must  take  her. 
The  Roman  women  crowded  round  to  protect  her:  the 
father  raised  his  voice  in  loud  and  bitter  protest  against 
this  crowning  outrage  on  the  liberty  of  Roman  citizens. 
Appius  charged  him  and  Icilius  with  meditating  revolu¬ 
tion,  and  bade  his  lictors  clear  a  way  through  the  crowd 
for  the  master  to  take  away  his  slave.  But  nothing  can 
give  the  rest  of  the  story  so  well  as  Livy’s  own  words. 

“When  Appius  had  thundered  forth  these  words  in  his  over¬ 
flowing  passion,  the  crowd  gave  way  without  resistance,  and  the 
maiden  stood  deserted  by  all,  a  nelpless  prey  to  injustice.  Then 
Virginius,  when  he  saw  no  aid  was  to  be  looked  for,  said:  ‘I 
pray  thee,  Appius  first,  to  make  allowance  for  a  father’s  feel¬ 
ings  if  I  have  said  aught  too  bitter  against  thee;  then,  suffer 
me  to  question  this  nurse,  in  the  maiden's  presence,  as  to  the 
facts  of  this  matter ;  so,  if  1  have  been  wrongly  called  her  father, 
1  can  part  from  her  with  a  lighter  heart.’  Leave  was  given:  he 
led  the  girl  and  her  nurse  aside,  near  what  are  now  called  the 
New  Booths,  and  there,  seizing  a  knife  from  a  butcher,  he  cried, 
Thus,  my  daughter,  to  the  only  way  I  can,  I  make  thee  free! ' 
Then  he  stabbed  her  in  the  heart,  and  lifting  his  eyes  to  the  tri¬ 
bunal  said— ‘Thee  and  thy  life,  Appius,  I  consecrate  to  destruc¬ 
tion  in  this  blood!  *  Roused  by  the  cries  which  followed  on  this 
deed  of  horror,  Appius  bade  his  men  seize  Virginius.  But  he 
cleared  a  way  for  himself  with  the  knife  as  he  went:  and  so. 
protected  also  by  a  body  of  young  men  who  escorted  him, 
reached  the  city  gate.  Then  Icilius  and  Numitorius  lifted  up  the 
lifeless  corpse,  and  showed  it  to  the  people  They  spoke  of  the 
wickedness  of  Appius,  the  beauty  of  the  maiden  which  had  been 
so  fatal  to  her,  the  hard  necessity  of  the  father.  The  matrons 


LIVY. 


followed  the  body,  crying  repeatedly,  *  Was  it  for  this  they  bore 
children?  Was  such  the  reward  of  maiden  chastity?  ’  (iii.  48.) 

The  men  calle'd  loudly  for  the  restoration  of  the 
tribunate,  the  safeguard  of  their  liberties.  In  vain  did 
Appius  order  the  arrest  of  Icilius.  The  indignant 
people  found  new  and  powerful  leaders  in  the  senators 
Valerius  and  Horatius;  and  Appius  had  to  fly  for  his 
life  from  the  Forum.*  The  legions  took  up  the  popu¬ 
lar  cause,  and  refused  any  longer  to  obey  the  Decem¬ 
virs’  orders.  Both  armies  marched  to  Rome,  and  seized 
the  Aventine  Hill,  the  home  of  the  commons;  and  each 
elected  ten  “Tribunes  of  the  Soldiers”  to  protect  their 
rights.  There  was  some  delay  in  negotiations  with  the 
jealous  patricians;  whereupon  the  commons  left  the 
city  in  a  body,  and  remembering  what  their  forefathers 
had  done  forty-five  years  before,  established  themselves 
once  more  on  the  “  Sacred  Hill.”  f  They  demanded 
not  only  the  restoration  of  the  tribunate,  and  indemnity 
for  all  the  leaders  of  the  revolution — they  clamored  to 
have  the  Ten  given  up  to  them,  “  that  they  might  burn 
them  with  fire.”  %  They  were  at  last  satisfied  with  the 
permission  to  impeach  them,  which  was  done  under  the 
new  administration.  Appius  and  another  of  his  col¬ 
leagues  committed  suicide  rather  than  abide  their  trial ; 


*  Nothing  can  more  admirably  represent  the  whole  spirit  of 
this  pathetic  episode  than  Macaulay’s  lay  of  “Virginia.”  The 
subject  was  naturally  a  tempting  one  to  the  dramatists;  and 
it  has  been  worthily  treated  both  by  Alfieri  and  Sheridan 
Knowles, 
t  See  p.  38. 

X  Machiavelli’s  remark  on  this  is  amusing  in  its  cool  cyni¬ 
cism.  The  people  made  a  mistake,  he  says,  on  this  occasion. 
They  were  quite  right  in  their  demand  that  the  Decemvirs 
should  be  given  up  to  them;  but  they  were  wrong  in  explaining 
u  pourquoi." 


THE  DECEMVIR  A  TE—THE  SACK  OF  ROME.  53 


the  rest  were  exiled;  and  “the  shade  of  Virginia, 
happier  in  her  death  than  in  her  life,”  says  the  annalist, 
who  was  more  than  half  a  poet,  “was  at  length  ap¬ 
peased.” 

It  is  but  a  legend,  the  critics  tell  us,  touching  and 
pathetic,  but  far  too  artistically  proportioned  to  be 
true  Their  judgment  may  be  right;  but  history,  like 
life,  is  all  the  more  beautiful  for  its  illusions.  The 
story  of  Virginia  may  be  only  the  composition  of  a 
professional  reciter,  its  details  selected  and  harmonized 
from  a  dozen  current  stories  of  the  tyranny  of  the  De- 
cemvirate ;  the  revolution  may  have  had  far  deeper  and 
wider  roots  than  a  father’s  or  a  lover’s  vengeance;  but 
again  it  is  true  at  least  so  far  as  this — it  was  men  like 
Virginius  that  made  the  liberties  of  Rome. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

FROM  THE  DECEMVIRATE  TO  THE  SACK  OF  ROME  BY 

THE  GAULS. 

(books  m.-v.  b.c.  449-390.) 

The  revolution  ended  in  the  restoration  of  the  old 
magistracies.  Ten  tribunes  were  elected,  Virginius, 
Icilius,  and  Numitorius  standing  first.  The  choice  for 
the  consulship  fell  by  acclamation  upon  the  two  senators 
who  had  stood  forth  as  champions  of  the  national  liber¬ 
ties — Valerius  and  Horatius.  They  were  in  fact  the 
first  who  properly  bore  the  name  of  “consul,”  for  the 
term  can  only  have  been  applied  by  anticipation  to  the 
earlier  chief  magistrates,  whose  real  designation  was 
“praetor.”  The  election  wTas  not  regarded  altogether 
with  favor  by  the  aristocratic  party,  since  it  was  con- 


54 


LIVY. 


sidered  that  both  the  new  consuls,  in  their  dealings  with 
the  commons,  had  somewhat  betrayed  the  interests  of 
their  own  order;  and  the  senate  showed  its  jealousy  in 
refusing  them  the  usual  honor  of  a  triumph,  when  they 
soon  after  defeated  the  Sabines  and  iEquians  in  the 
campaign  of  the  year.  The  triumph  was  held  notwith¬ 
standing,  on  the  demand  of  the  tribunes,  which  the 
senate  were  unable  to  resist;  though  one  of  the  speakers 
was  bold  enough  to  protest  that  it  was  “a  triumph 
gained  over  the  senate,  not  over  the  enemy.”  But  the 
defeat  of  the  Sabines  at  least  must  have  been  complete, 
since  we  hear  of  no  movements  on  their  part  for  a  hun¬ 
dred  and  fifty  years. 

The  military  events  of  this  period  are  of  no  great  im¬ 
portance  otherwise,  though  we  find  the  usual  border 
hostilities  going  on  from  time  to  time.  The  political 
changes  are  of  much  higher  interest;  and  of  these  the 
annalist’s  account  is,  as  usual,  confused  and  unsatisfac¬ 
tory.  What  may  be  clearly  traced  through  it  all  is  the 
progress  of  the  commons  to  political  power.  The  con¬ 
sul  Valerius  succeeded  in  passing  two  laws;  one  to  the 
effect  that  it  should  be  treason  to  propose  the  election 
of  any  magistrate  from  whose  sentence  there  should  not 
be  right  of  appeal;  and  the  other  to  place  a plcbiscitum 
— a  decree  of  the  commons — on  the  same  footing  as  one 
passed  by  the  burghers  in  their  centuries.  It  would 
appear  also  from  other  authorities — and  there  are  indi¬ 
cations  of  it  in  these  “Annals” — that  it  was  arranged 
that  in  future  one  consul  should  be  chosen  from  the 
plebeians,  but  that  as  yet  this  was  seldom  carried  out. 
There  now  appear  also  from  time  to  time,  instead  of 
the  two  consuls,  new  magistrates  called  “Tribunes  of 
the  Soldiers,”  uncertain  in  number,  who  were  to  be 
elected  from  both  orders  alike.  Probably  it  was  in- 


THE  DECEMVIR  A  TE—THE  SACK  OF  ROME.  55 


tended  that  these  should  exercise  the  military  functions 
of  the  consuls,  whose  civil  powers  were  transferred  to 
two  other  new  magistrates  called  Censors,  who  were  to 
settle  the  roll  of  the  senate,  to  fix  the  rank  of  every  in¬ 
dividual  in  the  state  according  to  his  property,  and  to 
manage  the  state  revenues.  This  office  was  reserved 
for  patricians  alone;  and  it  gave  its  holders  so  much  in¬ 
fluence,  and  conferred  upon  them  so  much  of  almost 
regal  state,  that  the  patrician  Mamercus  iEmilius  won 
himself  a  great  name  for  patriotism,  when  he  proposed 
and  carried  the  limitation  of  the  appointment  to  eighteen 
months  instead  of  the  original  term  of  five  years.  An¬ 
other  important  social  step  towards  the  placing  the  two 
orders  of  citizens  on  something  like  equality  was  the 
legalizing  for  the  future  (by  the  law  of  Canuleius)  of 
marriages  contracted  between  a  patrician  and  a  ple¬ 
beian. 

An  event  occurred  a  few  years  afterwards  which 
caused  great  public  excitement,  and  threatened  to 
break  the  comparatively  peaceful  relations  which  were 
now  existing.  During  a  year  of  great  scarcity,  a  rich 
plebeian  named  Spurius  Maelius,  whose  wealth  gave 
him  a  place  among  the  knights — he  was  a  contractor, 
or  something  of  the  kind — began  either  to  give  away, 
or  sell  at  a  very  low  price  to  the  poorer  citizens,  a 
quantity  of  corn  which  he  had  got  in  from  Etruria. 
Whether  the  burghers  were  jealous  of  his  consequent 
popularity,  or  whether  they  really  believed  it,  they 
raised  against  him  the  fatal  cry  that  he  was  seeking  to 
make  himself  a  king.*  The  consuls  of  the  year  seem 


*  Arnold  keenly  observes  that  “charity  was  so  little  familiar  to 
the  Greeks  and  Romans  that  the  splendid  magnificence  of  Meelius 
is  in  itself  suspicious.” 


56 


LIVT. 


to  have  been  either  timid  or  incapable.  They  sent 
again  for  the  one  man  wh@m  apparently  all  Rome  held 
to  be  infallible — Quinctius  Cincinuatus,  now  some  eighty 
years  old.  He  was  made  Dictator,  and  named  Servius 
Ahala,  a  man  apparently  of  his  own  mould,  his  “Mas¬ 
ter  of  the  Horse.”  Mselius  was  summoned  to  appear 
before  the  Dictator;  he  refused  to  come;  and  when  the 
officer  tried  to  arrest  him,  he  rushed  into  the  midst  of 
the  crowd  and  appealed  to  them  for  protection.  A 
riot  seemed  imminent;  and  the  Master  of  the  Horse, 
who  was  supported  by  a  strong  force  (“of  young 
patricians,”  according  to  Livy),  cut  him  down  on  the 
spot.  The  stern  old  Dictator  formally  pronounced  it 
“justifiable  homicide.”  The  tribunes  persisted  in 
representing  it  as  nothing  more  or  less  than  a  political 
murder.  His  house  was  ordered  to  be  razed  to  the 
ground  as  the  property  of  a  traitor,  and  its  site  was 
known  ever  after  as  the  “Mselian  Level;”  but  how  far 
he  was  or  was  not  the  traitor  which  the  annalist  makes 
him  out  to  be,  we  shall  never  know. 

The  strong  town  of  Fidense,  some  five  or  six  miles 
from  Rome,  had  put  itself  under  the  protection  of 
Yeii,  and  its  final  subjection  (for  it  had  been  taken  and 
retaken  more  than  once)  was  the  first  addition  of  real 
importance  made  to  the  Roman  dominion,  which  from 
this  time  forth  began  its  course  of  rapid  extension. 
Yeii  itself,  which  had  withstood  its  powerful  neighbor 
so  long,  was  soon  to  fall.  Hitherto  the  wars  between 
Rome  and  her  neighbors  had  been  little  more  than 
border  raids,  her  force  a  mere  field  militia,  the  cam¬ 
paign  lasting,  at  the  most,  a  few  months;  but  in  b.c. 
406,  Yeii,  a  strong  town  with  walls  of  the  solid  Etrus¬ 
can  masonry,  was  regularly  blockaded,  by  a  double  line 
of  circumvallation,  as  Livy’s  words  would  seem  to  im- 


THE  DECEMVIR  ATE— THE  SACK  OF  ROME.  57 


ply,  but  more  probably  by  something  like  a  chain  of 
detached  forts,  with  the  view  of  cutting  off  from  it  all 
succor  and  supplies, — which,  however,  was  only  par¬ 
tially  successful.  Then  for  the  first  time,  apparently, 
a  Roman  force  was  expected  to  keep  the  field  during 
the  winter;  and  it  was  not  without  strong  remonstrance 
on  the  part  of  the  tribunes  that  so  unpopular  a  requisi¬ 
tion  was  submitted  to.  The  siege  is  said*to  have  lasted 
ten  years,  like  the  siege  of  Troy;  but  the  details  of  it 
given  by  the  annalist  can  hardly  be  considered  histori¬ 
cal.  A  great  defeat  of  the  blockading  force  is  recorded 
in  the  last  year  of  the  siege,  by  the  men  of  Capense  and 
Falerii,  who  came  to  help  their  neighbors ;  the  report  of 
it  was  exaggerated  by  panic,  and  there  was  terrible 
consternation  at  Rome.  Then,  we  are  told,  “  the 
leader  predestined  by  the  Fates  to  destroy  the  hostile 
city  and  to  save  his  country,  Marcus  Furius  Oamillus,” 
was  named  Dictator;  and  we  may  suspect  at  once,  with 
Niebuhr  and  other  keen  historical  inquirers,  that  we 
are  indebted  for  much  that  follows  to  the  family  chroni¬ 
cles  of  the  house  of  the  Furii.  Camillus  at  once  attacks 
and  defeats  the  allies  of  Yeii,  takes  both  their  camps, 
restores  discipline  amongst  the  Roman  troops,  draws 
his  lines  closer,  drives  a  mine  under  the  walls  right  into 
the  heart  of  the  city,  and  sends  to  Rome  to  announce 
that  Yeii  is  ready  to  fall,  and  to  ask  what  he  shall  do 
with  the  expected  spoil.  The  Roman  populace  are  in¬ 
vited  to  set  out  in  a  body  to  share  it;  a  tenth  only  being 
reserved  by  the  conqueror  as  an  offering  to  Apollo. 
And  here  follows  a  circumstantial  story  which  Livy 
himself  considers  as  “  fabulous that  the  mine  was 
ready  to  be  sprung,  right  under  the  temple  of  Juno; 
that  the  king  of  Yeii  was  there  offering  sacrifice,  when 
the  soothsayer  exclaimed  that  the  man  who  presented 


58 


LIVY. 

% 


on  the  altar  the  entrails  of  that  victim  should  win  the 
victory.  The  words  were  heard  by  the  Romans  in  the 
mine;  they  broke  through,  seized  the  victim,  and  handed 
the  entrails  to  their  general:  and  so  the  words  came 
true. 

Veii  was  taken  and  given  up  to  plunder,  and  its  in¬ 
habitants  sold  for  slaves.  Great  was  the  joy  of  the  Ro¬ 
mans,  and  no  Jionors  were  thought  too  great  for  the 
conqueror.  Never  had  such  a  triumph  been  seen  at 
Rome.  Camillus  had  his  chariot  drawn  by  four  white 
horses;  but  there  were  not  wanting  curious  tongues 
which  said  such  display  was  neither  good  precedent  in 
a  Roman  citizen,  nor  becoming  in  a  mortal  man;  it  was 
usurping  to  himself  the  privileges  of  Jove  and  of  the 
Sun.  If  Camillus  did  take  to  himself  any  unbecoming 
honor,  it  is  not  in  harmony  with  the  prettier  story 
which  Livy  gives  briefly,  and  Dionysius  at  more  length 
— that  when  he  recognized  the  greatness  of  his  victory, 
so  far  beyond  all  hope  and  expectation,  he  lifted  his 
hands  to  heaven  and  prayed,  “that  if  in  the  sight  of 
gods  or  men  his  own  and  the  Roman  people’s  good  for¬ 
tune  seemed  too  great,  the  compensating  evil  might  fall 
upon  him  in  his  own  person,  and  not  on  his  fellow- 
citizens  and  his  country.”  As  he  turned  round  (so  ran 
the  story)  he  stumbled  and  fell;  and  some  men  “  judg¬ 
ing  by  the  event” — as  such  things  commonly  are  judged 
— interpreted  the  omen  of  the  downfall  of  Camillus 
himself,  and  some  of  the  disaster  which  was  in  a  few 
years  to  come  upon  Rome. 

The  campaign  against  Veii  is  marked  by  two  distinct 
steps  in  the  internal  history  of  Rome,  which  the  anna¬ 
list  passes  over  somewhat  lightly,  but  which  are  of  more 
importance  than  many  of  the  petty  wars  which  he  is 
careful  to  record,  and  probably  much  more  authentic 


THE  EEC  EM  VIE  A  TE—  THE  SACK  OF  ROME.  59 


than  the  story  of  Yeii.  Then,  for  the  first  time,  was 
the  question  of  war,  “  by  the  perseverance  of  the  tri¬ 
bunes,”  referred  to  the  people  in  their  centuries;  where¬ 
as  hitherto  a  decree  of  the  senate  had  been  held  suffi¬ 
cient.  And  in  this  war,  for  the  first  time,  was  regular 
pay  given  to  the  troops  on  service. 

Falerii  fell  soon  after,  before  the  same  conqueror; 
who,  when  he  had  laid  down  his  dictatorship,  was 
chosen  one  of  the  Tribunes  of  the  Soldiers.  We  are 
still  perhaps  in  the  domain  of  fable,  when  we  are  asked 
to  believe  the  story  of  the  schoolmaster  who,  taking  out 
his  pupils— sons  of  the  chief  men  of  Falerii — for  exer¬ 
cise  outside  the  walls,  offered  to  betray  them  into  the 
hands  of  the  Roman  general,  and  was  sent  back  by  him 
into  the  town  with  his  hands  tied  behind  him,  and  in¬ 
junctions  to  his  scholars  to  flog  him  all  the  way;  at 
Which  act  of  generosity  the  men  of  Falerii  were  so 
charmed  that  they  voluntarily  gave  up  the  city  to  so 
magnanimous  a  captain.  Whether  any  such  episode 
did  or  did  not  take  place,  it  is  tolerably  certain  that 
Camillus  did  not  address  the  wrretched  schoolmaster  in 
the  neat  and  appropriate  rhetorical  speech  which  our 
author  has  composed  for  him.*  But  Falerii  fell,  and 
other  towns  soon  after;  and  the  Romans  reached  the 
Ciminian  Hills — “the  extreme  natural  boundary  of  the 
basin  of  the  Tiber  on  the  side  of  Etruria.”  But  we 
must  not  overrate  the  extent  of  their  early  conquests; 
as  yet  no  Roman  army  had  marched  more  than  fifty 
miles  from  Rome. 

Camillus  had  meanwhile  fallen  into  disgrace.  The 

*  The  reader  will  appreciate  M.  Taine’s  playful  criticism: 
“  Le  pauvre  pedagogue  a  trouve  son  maitre:  il  ecoute  une  le- 
Son  de  rhetorique,  avant  d’etrere  conduit  a  la  ville  de  la  mani- 
6r«  que  chacun  sait.” 


60 


LIVY. 


plunder  of  Yeii  had  been  distributed  before  the  tithe 
which  he  had  vowed  to  Apollo  had  been  set  apart;  and 
there  was  a  great  amount  of  discontent  when  this  was 
demanded  from  the  holders  afterwards.  He  became 
the  project  of  popular  jealousy  and  dislike.  He  was  ac¬ 
cused  of  having  secreted  for  himself  part  of  the  plun¬ 
der.  There  can,  however,  be  little  doubt  but  that  his 
strong  opposition  to  the  popular  party,  and  especially 
to  their  project  of  colonizing  Yeii,  as  recorded  by  Livy, 
was  the  chief  reason  for  their  enmity.  The  discon¬ 
tented  commons  proposed  to  form  at  Yeii  as  it  were 
a  second  Rome;  and  in  its  lands,  which  they  declared 
were  more  fertile  than  those  round  the  older  city,  they 
saw  a  new  state  demesne  which  could  be  allotted  to 
themselves.  The  conservative  senators  resisted  it  as 
almost  an  impiety  to  their  ancestral  gods.  The  quarrel 
grew  so  bitter,  that  Camillus  was  impeached  by  one  of 
the  tribunes;  and  rather  than  stand  a  trial  in  which  he 
may  have  felt  that  judgment  had  been  passed  before¬ 
hand,  he  went  into  voluntary  exile;  praying,  says  the 
annalist,  as  he  left  the  city,  that  “if  he  were  innocent, 
and  wrong  was  being  done  him  in  that  matter,  his  un¬ 
grateful  countrymen  might  soon  be  made  to  feel  his  loss.” 

If  we  are  still  reading  the  chronicles  of  the  Furii,  the 
historiographer  of  that  illustrious  house  must  have  had 
many  of  the  qualifications  of  an  excellent  dramatist. 
The  Romans  were  soon  to  pay  the  penalty  of  their  in¬ 
gratitude,  and  Furius  Camillus  was  to  take  an  heroic  re¬ 
venge.  Tidings  came  from  Clusium  that  a  new  enemy 
was  threatening  not  Rome  only,  but  all  civilized  Italy. 
A  voice  had  been  heard  in  the  night,  near  the  temple  of 
Yesta,  warning  the  guardians  of  the  city  that  “the 
Gauls  were  at  hand  ” — those  truculent  barbarians,  naked 
to  the  waist,  whose  tall  persons,  cold  steel-blue  eyes, 


THE  D ECEMVIRA TE—  THE  SACK  OF  ROME.  61 


and  long  yellow  hair  and  mustache,  so  utterly  different 
from  the  Italian  type,  the  Romans  to  the  last  could  never 
look  upon  without  dread  and  dislike.  The  Gauls,  who 
had  long  since  driven  out  the  Etruscans  from  the  rich 
plains  of  the  Po,  had  now  crossed  the  Apennines,  and 
had  appeared  in  force  before  Clusimn.  The  Romans 
sent  three  commissioners  to  watch  their  movements;  but 
it  was  scarcely  the  custom  of  the  times  or  of  the  Ro¬ 
mans — and  still  less  the  temper  of  the  house  of  Fabius, 
to  which  these  officers  belonged — to  watch  a  fight  with¬ 
out  taking  part  in  it.  Quintus  Fabius  killed  with  his 
own  hand  a  Gaulish  captain,  and  was  recognized  for  a 
Roman  while  he  was  stripping  the  body.  Indignant  at 
this  breach  of  the  law  of  nations,  the  Gauls  sent  to 
Rome  to  demand  the  surrender  of  the  three  Fabii. 
The  Romans  refused;  “  they  knew  the  demand  of  the 
barbarians  was  fair,”  we  are  told,  “  but  the  influence  of 
a  noble  house  was  too  powerful;”  and  the  invading 
horde  broke  up  from  Clusium,  and  marched  upon  Rome. 
No  preparations  had  been  made;  and  while  the  country 
people  fled  before  the  rapid  sweep  of  this  new  enemy, 
and  filled  the  city  with  terror  and  confusion,  some 
hastily-gathered  levies  marched  out  to  check  their  ad¬ 
vance,  and  met  them  on  the  little  stream  called  Allia, 
about  eleven  miles  from  Rome.  “  Without  sacrifices, 
without  auspices,”  says  the  Roman  historian,  anxious 
to  account  for  the  unfortunate  issue,  they  drew  up  their 
line  and  engaged — only  to  meet  what  he  confesses  was 
a  complete  and  shameful  defeat.  Some  were  drowned 
in  the  Tiber,  some  fled  to  Rome,  and  more  to  Yeii,  to 
avoid  crossing  the  river.  We  are  told  that  in  the  gen¬ 
eral  confusion  the  fugitives  who  reached  Rome  did  not 
even  stop  to  shut  the  city  gates,  but  at  once  took  shelter 
in  the  citadel, 


62 


LIVY. 


The  whole  story  of  the  sacking  of  Rome  by  the  Gauls 
is  little  better  than  a  romance;  yet  Livy’s  version  of  it, 
founded  probably  on  the  family  annals  of  the  Furii  and 
Manlii,  cannot  be  omitted.  Like  some  similar  stories 
in  English  history,  it  is  likely  to  retain  its  place  in  the 
memory  when  drier  facts  are  forgotten. 

The  Gauls,  say  these  Annals,  reached  the  walls  of 
Rome  on  the  evening  of  the  battle.  But  the  open  gates, 
and  the  unnatural  quiet,  awed  them;  they  feared  a 
stratagem,  and  put  off  their  entrance  till  the  morning. 
They  met  with  no  resistance;  all  who  could  bear  arms 
had  shut  themselves  in  the  Capitol,  with  their  wives 
and  children;  the  priest  of  Quirinus  (the  deified  Romu¬ 
lus),  and  the  Vestal  Virgins,  who  had  charge  of  the 
Eternal  Fire,  had  buried  some  of  the  sacred  images, 
and  carried  the  rest  for  safety  to  the  little  town  of  Caere. 
Such  of  the  lower  orders  as  were  not  trained  to  arms 
were  bid  to  shift  for  themselves,  and  most  of  them  at 
once  dispersed  into  the  country.  The  older  senators 
and  patricians  announced  their  intention  of  meeting 
death  where  they  were — they  would  not  burden  the 
defenders  of  the  Capitol,  they  said,  with  the  mainten¬ 
ance  oftheir  useless  bodies.  Some  say  that  by  a  sol¬ 
emn  formula  they  devoted  their  lives  for  Rome.  So, 
when  the  Gauls  entered  the  Forum  by  the  Colline 
Gate,  and  spread  themselves  to  plunder,  they  saw  a 
strange  sight. 

“  The  houses  of  the  lower  orders  were  shut  up,  but  the  halls  of 
the  chief  men  stood  open ;  and  they  hesitated  more  at  entering 
these  than  at  breaking  open  such  as  were  closed  against  them. 
Thus  it  was  not  without  a  certain  awe  and  reverence  that  they  be¬ 
held  sitting  in  the  vestibules  of  their  houses,  figures  which  not 
only  in  their  costume  and  decorations,  whose  magnificence 
seemed  to  their  eyes  more  than  mortal,  but  in  the  majesty  of 
their  looks  and  bearing,  were  like  unto  gods.  While  they  stood 


THE  DEGEMVIRATE—THE  SACK  OF  ROME.  63 


fixedly  regarding  them  as  though  they  were  statues,  a  Gaul  is 
said  to  have  stroked  the  beard,  worn  long  as  it  was  in  those 
days  of  one  of  them,  Marcus  Papirius,  who  smote  him  on  the 
head  with  his  ivory  staff ,  and  woke  his  wrath;  with  that  began  a 
general  massacre  and  the  rest  were  killed  where  they  sat.”— (v. 
41.) 

The  city  was  sacked  and  burnt;  but  the  citadel  held 
out.  Part  of  the  host  stayed  to  blockade  it,  while  the 
the  rest  spread  themselves  over  the  country  to  plunder. 
One  division  attacked  the  town  of  Ardea.  There  Cam- 
illus  was  “growing  grey  in  exile — inveighing  against 
gods  and  men,  and  asking  where  were  the  men  who  had 
fought  with  him  at  Yeii  and  Falerii,  who  were  always 
brave  at  least,  if  not  always  successful?”  He  roused 
the  men  of  Ardea  to  a  night  attack  upon  the  barbarians, 
and  cut  them  to  pieces.  “Friends  and  enemies  de¬ 
clared  alike  that  there  was  nowhere  to  be  fouud  a  war¬ 
rior  like  Camillus.”  The  Roman  fugitives  collected  at 
Yeii,  and  took  heart,  and  named  the  hero  of  the  times 
once  more  Dictator. 

But  before  he  could  reach  Rome,  says  the  story, 
weaker  counsels  had  prevailed.  The  Gauls  had  discov¬ 
ered  a  way  to  climb  the  steep  of  the  Capitol;  and  but 
for  those  wakeful  geese  who  have  passed  into  a  proverb, 
and  the  heroism  of  Manlius,  who  dashed  his  shield  in 
the  face  of  the  leader  of  the  escalade,  and  hurled  him 
down  upon  his  ascending  comrades,  the  last  stronghold 
of  the  Romans  would  have  been  taken.  Still  the  block 
ade  went  on;  but  the  famine  was  sore  among  the  de¬ 
fenders,  and  at  last  they  were  fain  to  bribe  their  in¬ 
vaders,  who  were  themselves  dying  in  heaps  from  pesti¬ 
lence,  to  take  a  ransom  in  gold  and  depart.  Then  the 
barbarians  brought  false  weights;  and  when  the  Roman 
officer  protested,  their  chief,  or  “  Brennus,”  as  they 


64 


LIVY. 


called  him,*  insultingly  threw  his  sword  into  the  scale, 
and  gave  no  explanation  beyond  the  words,  “  Woe  to  the 
conquered!”  But,  said  the  legends  in  conclusion,  be¬ 
fore  the  disgraceful  bargain  had  been  concluded,  the 
great  Dictator  marched  in  from  Veii,  bade  the  gold  be 
taken  back,  and  told  his  countrymen  to  remember  that 
Rome  must  be  ransomed  not  with  gold  but  steel.  He 
drove  the  Gauls  out  of  the  city,  defeated  them  in  two 
great  battles,  destroyed  their  camp,  and  “not  a  man 
was  left  to  carry  home  the  news  of  their  disaster.” 

Such  is  the  story  told  by  Livy;  evidently  so  colored 
and  exaggerated,  to  enhance  the  glory  of  Camillus  and 
to  save  the  wounded  honor  of  Rome,  that  all  attempts 
to  rectify  the  'history,  and  sift  the  truth  out  of  the 
fiction,  are  more  ingenious  than  satisfactory.  Through 
it  all  there  stands  out  the  great  fact  that  Rome  was 
taken  and  burnt,  and  the  Capitol  held  to  ransom;  and 
there  is  jverv  reason  to  suppose  that  the  Gauls  got  clear 
off  with  most  of  their  plunder.  How  great  must  have 
been  the  devastation  made  by  such  an  inroad  we  might 
readily  imagine,  even  if  we  did  not  collect  sufficient 
intimation  of  it  from  the  pages  of  Livy.  He  tells  us 
how  the  buildings  in  the  city  were  so  utterly  ruined, 
that  the  mass  of  the  people  would  have  deserted  them 
forever,  had  not  every  patriotic  argument  and  every  re¬ 
ligious  sentiment  been  appealed  to.  Once  more — and 
this  time  perhaps  with  better  reason — the  cry  was  raised 
for  a  general  migration  to  Veii;  and  Camillus,  still  the 
controlling  spirit  in  all  emergencies  of  war  and  state, 
had  to  implore  his  fellow-citizens  not  to  desert  the  gods 
and  altars  of  their  native  city.  Rome  had  prospered, 


*  The  name  is  plainly  not  an  appellative;  it  is  the  Celtic  Bran 
pr  Cymric  firenhin,  a  chief  or  king. 


THE  DECEMVIR  A  TE—THE  SACK  OF  ROME.  65 


he  reminded  them,  only  so  long  as  she  had  been  mind¬ 
ful  of  her  sacred  trust.  The  words  which  Livy  has  put 
into  his  mouth  are  surely  the  expression  of  the  writer’s 
own  intense  love  for  Rome  and  Italy. 

“  We  hold  a  city  founded  under  auspices  and  with  solemn  in¬ 
auguration  ;  there  is  no  spot  within  its  walls  that  is  not  full  of  a 
divine  presence  and  hallowed  associations.  The  days  on  which 
our  great  sacrifices  recur  are  not  more  strictly  fixed  than  the 
places  where  they  are  to  be  offered.  Will  you  desert  all  these 
objects  of  adoration,  public  and  private,  my  fellow-citizens?  .  .  . 
Some  will  say,  perhaps,  that  we  can  fulfil  these  sacred  du¬ 
ties  at  Veii,  or  send  our  own  priests  from  thence  to  perform 
them  here.  Neither  can  be  done  without  breaking  our  religious 
obligations.  What  shall  I  say  of  the  Eternal  Fire  of  Vesta,  and 
of  that  Image*  preserved  in  the  guardianship  of  her  temple  as 
the  pledge  of  our  empire?  What  of  your  sacred  shields,  O  great 
Mars  and  Father  Quirinus?  Is  it  your  will  to  forsake  and  leave 
to  desecration  all  these  hallowed  symbols,  old  as  the  city  her¬ 
self,  some  even  older  than  her  foundation?  ...  I  speak  of 
ceremonies,  and  of  temples— what  shall  I  say  of  those  who  guard 
them?  Your  Vestals  have  one  only  seat,  whence  nothing  but  the 
capture  of  th9  city  ever  yet  moved  them.  The  Priest  of  Jupiter 
may  not  lawfully  pass  a  single  night  outside  the  city  walls.  Will 
you  make  these  ministers  of  Veii  instead  of  Rome? 

“  If  in  this  whole  city  no  better  or  more  commodious  dwelling 
could  be  erected  than  that  hut  in  which  our  Founder  lived,— 
were  it  not  better  to  live  in  huts  like  shepherds  and  peasants, 
amidst  your  own  shrines  and  household  gods,  then  go  into  this  na 
tiona)  exile?  .  .  .  Does  our  affection  for  our  native  place  de 
pend  on  walls  and  beams?  For  mine  own  part,  when  I  was  late 
in  exile,  I  confess  that  as  often  as  my  native  city  came  into  my 
thoughts,  there  rose  before  my  eyes  all  this, — these  hills,  these 
plains.,  yon  Tiber,  and  the  scene  so  familiar  to  my  sight,  and  the 
oright  sky  under  which  I  was  born  and  brought  up.  O  Roman 
countrymen !  rather  let  these  things  move  you  now,  by  the  love 
you  bear  them,  to  stay  where  you  are,  than  wring  your  hearts 
with  regret  for  them  hereafter !  Not  without  cause  did  gods  and 


*  The  Palladium— the  wooden  image  of  Pallas,  asserted  to  have 
been  brought  by  iEneas  from  Troy. 


66 


LIVY. 


men  fix  on  tliis  spot  to  found  a  city:  health-giving  hills,  a  river 
nigh  at  hand,  to  bring  in  food  from  all  inland  places,  to  receive 
supplies  by  sea;  the  sea  itself  handy  for  commerce,  yet  not  so 
near  as  to  expose  the  city  to  hostile  fleets;  a  spot  central  to  all 
Italy,  adapted  beyond  all  others  for  the  growth  of  a  great  state.  ” 
— (v.  54.) 

The  appeal  was  successful,  and  the  citizens  began  to 
rebuild.  We  are  told  (though  here  we  have  probably 
some  exaggeration)  that  every  public  monument  was 
destroyed,  and  every  record  burnt;  that  the  very  sites 
of  the  temples  were  in  many  cases  hard  to  trace; 
and  that  the  streets  were  choked  with  the  charred  and 
blackened  heaps  of  what  had  once  been  houses,  so 
that  a  man  could  hardly  recognize  where  his  own 
dwelling  had  stood,  while  ruin  and  desolation  were 
spread  for  miles  beyond  the  city  walls.  Even  when 
the  people  had  with  difficulty  been  persuaded  to 
undertake  the  task  of  rebuilding  their  dwellings,  the 
borrowing  of  money  at  high  interest  brought  about  the 
old  difficulty  of  hopeless  debt.  The  war-tax  was 
doubled,  which  pressed  with  additional  severity  on  a 
decreasing  population.  Rome  was  thrown  back  almost 
to  its  condition  a  century  before.  And,  to  crown  the 
public  embarrassment,  the  subject-allies  who  had  re¬ 
mained  staunch  to  Rome  ever  since  the  treaty  of  Spurius 
Cassius,  the  Latins  and  Hernicans,  took  advantage  of 
her  lowering  fortunes  to  assert  again  their  independ¬ 
ence. 


CONQUEST  OF  LATIUM. 


67 


CHAPTER  Y. 

"v 

CONQUEST  OF  LATIUM. 

(books  vi.-viii.  b.c.  390-388.) 

Whatever  gloss  tlie  Roman  annalists  may  have  pnt 
upon  the  actual  facts  of  the  terrible  struggle  with  the 
Gauls,  the  coldest  historical  judgment  must  confess  that 
Rome  is  never  grander  than  in  her  misfortunes.  The 
city  was  rebuilt;  new  immigrants — from  Yeii,  from 
Capenae,  from  Falerii — were  admitted  to  the  rights  of 
citizenship,  to  supply  the  gaps  made  in  their  ranks  by 
the  last  fatal  war;  the  numbers  must  have  been  even 
augmented  by  this  process,  for  we  are  told  that  four  new 
tribes  were  added  to  the  twenty-one. 

Camillus  fills  the  stage  still.  He  gains  fresh  victories 
over  the  Yolscians,  and  over  a  new  Etruscan  federation 
— for  the  adversity  of  Rome  was  the  opportunity  for  all 
her  hostile  neighbors;  even  the  Latins  and  Hernicans, 
as  has  been  said,  hastened  to  renounce  her  alliance,  not 
only  refusing  the  usual  contingent  of  men,  but  even 
supplying  aid  to  the  enemy.  The  details  of  the  various 
minor  wars,  as  given  by  Livy,  cannot  be  trusted;  but  it 
is  plain  from  subsequent  events  that  Rome  was  able  to 
hold  her  own.  The  Latins  and  Hernicans,  seeing  things 
going  against  them,  sent  to  repudiate  the  act  of  their 
citizens  who  had  been  found  fighting  in  the  ranks  of 
the  Yolscians,  and  to  claim  that  such  of  them  as  had 
been  taken  prisoners  (many  were  of  high  rank)  should 
be  handed  over  to  their  own  government  for  punish¬ 
ment.  The  senate  sternly  bid  the  envoys  betake  them¬ 
selves  at  once  “out  of  the  sight  of  the  Roman  people:” 


68 


LIVY. 


they  would  not  guarantee  to  rebels,  they  said,  the  im¬ 
munity  of  ambassadors. 

But  while  Rome  thus  bravely  maintained  her  honor 
against  external  enemies,  though  not  without  some  nar¬ 
rowing  of  her  borders  for  the  time,  her  internal  condi¬ 
tion  was  one  of  great  suffering  for  the  larger  class  of 
her  citizens,  on  whom  the  pressure  of  debt  and  taxation 
was  weighing  more  heavily  from  day  to  day.  Again, 
whether  from  generous  impulse  or  selfish  ambition,  one 
of  her  distinguished  citizens  put  himself  forward  as  the 
champion  of  the  oppressed;  and  again,  rightfully  or 
wrongfully,  he  was  charged  with  seeking  to  make  him¬ 
self  a  king.  Manlius,  known  as  “Capitolinus,”  from 
his  late  heroic  defense  of  the  Capitol,  was  jealous — so 
said  his  enemies — of  the  honors  of  Camillus :  was  indig¬ 
nant,  he  said  himself,  at  the  sufferings  of  the  honest 
commons.  One  day  he  saw — what  was  no  uncommon 
sight  at  Rome — an  unfortunate  debtor  being  hurried 
off  by  his  creditor  to  end  his  days  in  the  “hard-labor- 
house,”  or  possibly  by  starvation.  In  this  case  the  man 
was  an  old  officer,  whose  services  were  known.  Man¬ 
lius  stopped  him,  and  paid  the  debt  on  the  spot,  not 
without  some  rhetorical  declamation  (in  which  we  hear 
Livy’s  voice,  and  not  Manlius’s)  against  the  oppression 
of  the  poor  by  the  rich,  and  his  own  great  deeds,  and 
his  sympathy  with  an  old  fellow -soldier.  He  followed 
up  this  popular  act  by  others  even  more  liberal;  he  sold 
his  lands,  and  advanced  the  money  without  interest  to 
those  who  were  in  debt,  until  it  was  said  that  more  than 
four  hundred  owed  their  liberty  to  him.  Men  hailed 
him  as  the  “Father  of  the  Commons.”  Crowds  fol¬ 
lowed  his  steps  in  public,  and  waited  at  his  doors.  He 
excited  their  feelings  yet  more  by  openly  asserting 
that  these  patricians,  not  content  with  enjoying  the  use 


CONQUEST  OF  LATTUM. 


69 


of  all  the  public  lands,  and  living  on  the  hard  labor  of 
their  poor  debtors,  had  secreted  the  gold  which  had  been 
recovered  from  the  Gauls;  “he  knew  where  the  money 
was,  and  would  tell  them  some  day.” 

Cossus  had  already  been  appointed  Dictator — partly 
in  view  of  this  perilous  state  of  things — and  he  was  now 
hurriedly  recalled  from  the  army  to  Rome.  He  sum¬ 
moned  Manlius  before  him,  and  called  upon  him  for 
proof  of  his  slanderous  charges.  The  speech  which  the 
annalist  assigns  to  Manlius  by  way  of  defense  was  cer¬ 
tainly,  if  it  was  spoken,  as  revolutionary  as  a  speech 
could  be.  “  He  was  well  aware  that  the  nomination  of 
a  Dictator  was  meant  as  a  weapon  against  himself  and 
the  commons,  not  against  a  foreign  enemy.  Did  they 
ask  why  he  put  himself  forward  alone  as  the  champion 
of  the  people?  They  might  as  well  ask  why  he  alone 
had  saved  the  Capitol.  They  required  him  to  tell  them 
where  the  gold  was  that  had  been  taken  from  the  Gauls; 
— why  ask  what  they  all  so  very  well  knew?  He,  at  all 
events,  would  give  no  information  of  the  kind  at  the 
bidding  of  his  enemies.”  He  was  arrested  and  thrown 
into  prison,  appealing  loudly  to  all  the  gods  against  this 
ingratitude  and  injustice.  Popular  as  he  was,  there 
was  no  attempt  at  riot.  The  annalist,  in  spite  of  his 
evident  sympathy  with  this  patrician  party,  pays  a  re¬ 
markable  tribute  to  the  Roman  populace:  one  might 
almost  think  he  was  speaking  of  an  English  mob. 
“They  had  an  invincible  respect,”  he  says,  “for  legiti¬ 
mate  authority.”  No  man  questioned  the  order  of  the 
Dictator.  But  numbers  of  the  people  went  into  mourn¬ 
ing,  and  crowds  gathered  round  the  gates  of  the  prison 
where  the  popular  hero  was  confined.  The  senate  tried 
to  appease  the  public  excitement  by  an  expedient  which 
they  hoped  would  win  for  them  a  counter-popularity--; 


70 


LIVY. 


a  distribution  of  the  lands  of  the  town  of  Satrium,  re¬ 
cently-recovered;  and  two  thousand  settlers  were  sent 
out  to  occupy  them :  but  this  only  drew  forth  the  taunt, 
that  it  was  meant  to  bribe  them  into  the  desertion  of 
their  favorite.  So  threatening  was  the  appearance  of 
things  that  Manlius  was  released. 

This  concession  did  but  encourage  the  malcontents. 
Manlius  held  meetings — some  at  night — in  which  his 
language  is  reported  as  seditious  in  the  highest  degree. 
He  reminded  his  partisans  of  the  fate  of  those  patriotic 
martyrs,  Spurius  Cassius  and  Mselius:  he  called  upon 
them  to  rid  themselves,  once  for  all,  of  consuls  and  dic¬ 
tators;  it  was  the  commons  who  ought  to  rule.  He 
was  the  champion  of  the  commons:  if  there  were  any 
higher  style  and  title  with  which  they  chose  to  invest 
their  leader,  let  them  employ  it,  if  so  they  could  better 
gain  their  ends  !  Such  an  expression  was  certainly 
plain  enough.  Manlius  was  at  once  impeached.  So 
terrible  was  this  charge  of  “making  himself  a  king,” 
that  for  that  reason,  probably,  it  was  remarked  how  he 
was  attended  at  his  trial  by  no  crowd  of  friends  in 
mourning,  as  was  the  usual  custom;  not  even  did  his 
two  brothers  take  their  places  by  his  side.  For  the 
same  reason,  even  the  commons  were  now  ready  to  con¬ 
demn  him. 

“  When  the  day  of  trial  came,  I  cannot  ascertain  from  any  au 
thority  what  was  brought  against  him  by  his  accusers  that  had 
to  do  with  his  aiming  at  royal  power,  beyond  the  crowds  he  col¬ 
lected  round  him,  his  seditious  language,  his  largesses,  and  the 
false  charge  he  had  made.  But  I  cannot  doubt  that  the  evidence 
on  that  point  was  strong,  because  the  hesitation  of  the  people  to 
condemn  him  lay  not  in  the  case  itself,  but  in  the  place  of  trial. 
That  fact  seems  worthy  of  remark,  that  men  may  understand 
how  the  greatest  and  most  brilliant  public  services  may  become 
not  only  thankless  but  even  hateful,  when  joined  -with  that  ac¬ 
cursed  lust  for  power.  He  is  said  to  have  brought  forward  nearly 


CONQUEST  OF  LATIUM. 


71 


four  hundred  men  whom  he  had  supplied  with  money  free  of  in¬ 
terest,  whose  goods  he  had  saved  from  public  sale,  and  whose 
persons  from  imprisonment.  Added  to  this,  he  is  said  not  only 
to  have  recited  the  honors  he  had  gained  in  the  field,  but  to  have 
displayed  them  to  public  view;— spoils  stripped  from  slain  ene¬ 
mies  to  the  number  of  thirty,  as  many  as  forty  personal  rewards 
from  his  commanders,  among  which  were  conspicuous  two 
‘  mural  ’  and  eight  ‘  civic  ’  crowns.*  More  than  this,  he  brought 
forward  the  fellow-citizens  whose  lives  he  had  saved  from  the 
enemy,  naming  among  them,  though  not  present,  C.  Servilius, 
Master  of  the  Horse.  And  when  he  had  recounted  all  his  services 
in  war.  in  glowing  language  corresponding  to  the  brilliancy  of  his 
exploits,  he  bared  his  breast,  scarred  all  over  with  wounds  re¬ 
ceived  in  battle.  Turning  his  eyes  from  time  to  time  to  the 
Capitol,  he  called  on  Jove  and  the  other  powers  there  to  aid  him  at 
his  need,  and  prayed  them  to  inspire  the  people  of  Rome  with  the 
same  spirit,  in  this  his  day  of  peril,  which  they  had  given  him  to 
protect  that  Capitol  for  the  Roman  people’s  deliverance;  and  im¬ 
plored  those  who  heard  him,  one  and  all,  to  look  on  the  Capitol 
and  its  fortress,  to  bethink  them  of  the  immortal  gods,  and  so 
give  their  judgment.”— (vi.  20). 

They  could  not  condemn  him,  says  the  story,  where  he 
stood  in  the  Campus  Martius,  still  stretching  out  his 
hands  towards  the  rock  which  towered  above  them; 
the  court  broke  up,  and  met  next  day  outside  the  city 
gates,  in  a  spot  whence  the  Capitol  could  not  be  seen, 
and  there  adjudged  him  to  death.  He  was  thrown  from 
the  Tarpeian  rock,  the  place  he  had  defended.  “Such 
was  the  end,”  says  the  annalist,  “of  a  man  who  had 
been  worthy  of  all  remembrance,  had  he  not  been  born 
a  citizen  of  a  free  city  ” — that  is,  a  city  which  would 
not  hear  the  name  of  “king.”  All  parties  seem  to  have 
thought  him  guilty  of  this  treason  to  the  common¬ 
wealth,  at  the  time:  even  his  own  family  made  a  vow 
that  none  of  them  henceforth  should  bear  the  name  of 


*  The  ‘‘mural  ”  for  being  the  first  to  enter  the  enemy’s  works; 
the  “  civic”  for  saving  the  life  of  a  comrade. 


72 


LIVY, ; 


Marcus;  but  when  a  pestilence  followed  next  year,  no 
wonder  that  the  repentant  commons  said  it  came  as  the 
avenger  of  Marcus  Manlius. 

The  pressure  of  debt  and  consequent  poverty  still 
continued,  and  it  became  plain,  even  to  the  moderate 
men  of  the  patrician  party,  that  some  remedial  measures 
were  absolutely  necessary.  According  to  Livy,  an  ex¬ 
hibition  of  female  jealousy  gave  the  first  impulse  to  the 
struggle  which  ended  in  the  most  substantial  victory 
yet  won  by  the  commons.  Two  sisters  of  the  great 
house  of  the  Fabii  had  married — one  a  patrician,  who 
was  a  military  tribune;  the  other  a  plebeian,  Licinius 
Stolo,  rich  and  distinguished,  but  still  of  the  unprivi¬ 
leged  order.  The  younger  Fabia  was  startled  by  the 
lictor’s  appearance  at  her  elder  sister’s  door,  announcing 
the  return  of  her  husband  from  the  Forum — much  to 
.  the  amusement  of  the  minister’s  lady ;  and  in  her  mor¬ 
tification  she  complained  to  her  father  of  her  loss  of 
position.  The  father  promised  her  that  her  own  hus¬ 
band  should  soon  enjoy  similar  public  rank;  and  from 
that  time  he  and  his  son-in-law,  Licinius,  began  to  agi¬ 
tate  for  what  were  afterwards  known  as  the  great  Licinian 
Bills.  These  propositions,  when  they  took  shape,  were 
three  in  number.  The  first  provided  that  it  should  be 
lawful,  from  that  date,  to  deduct  from  the  capital  sum 
of  all  standing  debts  the  amount  already  paid  in  interest. 
The  second  made  it  illegal  for  any  citizen  to  occupy,  as 
tenant  of  the  state,  more  than  five  hundred (about 
280  acres)  of  the  public  laud;  which  would  leave  a  large 
portion  to  be  allotted  to  new  claimants,  and  was  practi¬ 
cally  an  agarian  law.  The  third  enancted  that  in  future 
one  of  the  two  consuls  must  be  chosen  from  the  plebeian 
order.  The  first  would  appear  an  arbitrary  and  stringent 
measure,  only  to  be  explained  by  the  fact  of  so  many  being 


CONQUEST  OF  LATIUM. 


i  O 


daily  reduced  by  hopeless  debt  into  a  condition  of  the 
most  miserable  serfdom,  and  by  remembering  that  in  most 
ancient  commonwealths,  as  with  the  Jews,  usury  taken 
from  a  fellow-citizen  was  held  discreditable ;  the  second 
was,  of  course,  highly  unpopular  with  the  privileged 
class,  who  looked  upon  their  large  and  profitable  hold¬ 
ings  as  their  own  by  use  and  wont;  but  the  last  was 
perhaps  the  bitterest  of  all  to  the  patricians,  as  throwing 
down  the  great  barrier  between  class  and  class.  After 
a  struggle  which,  according  to  Livy,  lasted  ten  years, 
during  some  of  which  the  city  was  almost  in  a  state  of 
anarchy, — a  struggle  maintained  with  great  energy 
on  both  sides,  yet  with  considerable  patience  and  for¬ 
bearance,  for  though  another  “  secession”  on  the  part 
of  the  commons  was  threatened,  no  blood  was  shed  in 
the  contest, — the  three  “Licinian  Rogations”  passed 
into  law,  and  a  share  in  the  highest  magistracy  of  the 
State  was  permanently  secured  for  the  commons.  A 
temple  was  erected  to  “Concord,”  to  mark  the  happy 
termination  of  the  long  struggle ;  and  a  fourth  day  was 
added  to  the  Great  Games  at  Rome.  The  annalist  re¬ 
cords  it  subsequently  as  a  curious  fact,  that  Licinius 
Stolo  was  the  first  notable  victim  of  his  own  law,  being 
convicted  of  holding  more  than  the  legal  quantity  of 
public  land. 

The  border  warfare  with  Yolscians  and  Latins  was 
still  going  on;  and  we  find  inserted  in  the  Annals, 
though  somewhat  indistinctly,  a  second  inroad  of  the 
Gauls,  and  a  complete  defeat  of  them  near  Alba  by 
Camillus,  now  in  his  old  age  for  the  fifth  time  named 
Dictator.*  A  year  afterwards  he  died  of  one  of  the 


*  This  story  is  related  by  other  writers  also;  but  Arnold  con 
aiders  it  to  be  “  merely  a  fabrication  of  the  memorials  of  the 


74 


LIVY. 


constantly-recurring  pestilences.  “He  had  lived  five- 
and-twenty  years  after  his  return  from  exile,  justly 
styled  the  second  founder,  after  Romulus,  of  the  city  of 
Rome.” 

Two  stories  are  told  by  our  author  of  this  period, 
which,  whether  true  or  fictitious,  are  interesting  as  illus¬ 
trations  of  the  old  Roman  spirit.  One  of  the  house  of 
the  Manlii  had  been  named  Dictator  for  a  religious  pur¬ 
pose,  and  had  made  use  of  his  power  to  raise  a  levy  of 
troops  to  indulge  his  military  vanity.  His  cruel  dis¬ 
position  had  shown  itself  especially  in  his  treatment 
of  his  son  Titus,  a  slow-witted  youth,  who  had  a  hesi¬ 
tation  in  his  speech,  whom  he  had  banished  from  his 
home,  and  treated  as  a  slave.  He  was  brought  to 
trial  for  it  by  one  of  the  tribunes.  The  son  heard  of 
it  on  the  farm  where  he  was  working,  obtained  admit¬ 
tance  to  the  tribune’s  house,  and  suddenly  presenting 
himself  before  the  magistrate  as  he  lay  in  bed,  with  a 
large  knife  in  his  hand,  threatened  him  with  instant 
death  unless  he  promised  to  drop  the  prosecution 
against  his  father;  which  the  tribune,  seeing  him  in 
terrible  earnest,  did.  Livy  admits  that  it  was  “not 
a  good  constitutional  precedent,  though  praiseworthy 
for  its  filial  duty;”  but  it  was  so  strongly  in  accordance 
with  the  Roman  feeling  that,  in  spite  of  his  infirmity 
and  utter  inexperience,  he  was  elected  by  popular  accla¬ 
mation  to  a  high  command  in  the  legions  next  year. 

In  that  same  year  is  placed  the  well-known  legend, 
so  often  a  subject  for  poet  and  painter,  of  the  devotion 
of  Marcus  Curtius.  How  a  great  chasm  yawned — 
none  knew  from  what  cause — in  the  middle  of  the 


house  of  the  Furii — the  last  which  occurs  in  the  story  of  Camil- 
lus,  and  not  the  least  scrupulous.”— Hist,  of  Rome,  ii.  49. 


CONQUEST  OF  LATIUM. 


75 


Forum;  how  the  oracles  said  it  could  only  be  closed 
by  casting  into  it  “  the  best  thing  that  Rome  possessed,” 
most  readers  know;  but  Livy  tells  the  sequel  in  his 
most  picturesque  manner. 

“  Then  young  Marcus  Curtius,  a  gallant  soldier,  chid  them  all 
for  doubting  that  there  could  be  any  better  thing  in  Rome  than 
good  weapons  and  a  stout  heart.  He  called  for  silence;  and 
looking  towards  the  temples  of  the  immortal  gods  that  crowned 
the  Forum,  and  towards  the  Capitol,  he  lifted  his  hands  first  to 
heaven,  and  then  stretching  them  downwards,  where  the  gulf 
yawned  before  him,  in  supplication  to  the  Powers  below,  he 
solemnly  devoted  himself  to  death.  Mounted  on  his  horse, 
which  he  had  clothed  in  the  most  splendid  trappings  that  could 
be  found,  he  leaped  all  armed  into  the  chasm,  while  crowds  of 
men  and  women  showered  in  after  him  precious  gifts  and 
fruits.”— (vii.  6.) 

Thirty  years  after  their  first  appearance,  the  Gauls 
made  a  second  inroad  into  Latium  (b.c.  361),  and  a 
third  some  few  years  later.  They  are  illustrated  by 
two  popular  stories  of  personal  combat;  the  first 
between  a  gigantic  Gaul  and  young  Titus  Manlius,  who 
had  his  surname  of  “  Torquatus”  from  the  golden  cir¬ 
clet,  the  well-known  Celtic  ornament,  which  he  took 
from  the  neck  of  his  antagonist;  and  the  second 
between  Valerius  and  another  gigantic  champion,  who 
like  Goliath  stalked  in  front  challenging  the  Roman 
ranks.  Valerius  was  said  to  have  been  assisted  by 
a  crow  which  beat  its  wings  about  the  face  of  his 
enemy,  and  thenceforth  to  have  borne  the  name  of 
“Corvus.”  Both  heroes  were  soon  to  be  better  known, 
and  for  exploits  more  important,  and  probably  more 
authentic,  if  less  picturesque.  With  the  help  of  the 
Latins,  who  had  renewed  the  old  alliance  with  Rome, 
the  invading  Gauls  were  beaten,  if  these  Annals  are  to 
be  trusted,  in  several  great  battles — the  last  linear 


76 


LIVY. 


a  second  Furius  Camillus,  son  of  the  great  Dictator. 
From  this  time  forth  we  hear  of  them  no  more  in 
Latium. 

The  Etruscans  of  Tarquinii  were  at  the  same  time 
carrying  on  with  their  Roman  neighbors  a  war  which 
is  marked  by  somewhat  more  than  ordinary  ferocity. 
They  had  defeated  a  Roman  consul  and  taken  numerous 
prisoners,  and,  in  accordance  with  that  horrible  super¬ 
stition  which,  as  we  may  see  hereafter,  found  its  way 
into  the  religion  of  Rome,  they  had  sacrificed  above 
three  hundred  Roman  soldiers  to  their  national  deities. 
That  it  was  a  solemn  “act  of  faith,”  and  not  a  mere 
outburst  of  savage  cruelty,  is  clear  from  Livy’s  descrip¬ 
tion  of  a  subsequent  battle,  in  which  the  Etruscan 
priests — who  were  in  fact  the  Lucumones  or  chiefs  of 
the  nation — marched  in  the  front  with  wild  gesticula¬ 
tions,  “  brandishing  live  snakes  and  burning  torches  in 
their  hands.”  In  that  war  the  first  plebeian  rose  to  the 
dictatorship — Marcus  Rutilus;  and  his  victories  over 
the  Etruscans  of  Tarquinii  were  rewarded  by  a  tri¬ 
umph,  in  spite  of  all  the  jealous  efforts  of  the  senate  to 
resist  it.  Two  years  afterwards,  a  still  more  signal  vic¬ 
tory  is  recorded,  and  a  terrible  act  of  reprisal  followed. 
Three  hundred  and  fifty-eight  of  the  best-born  citizens 
of  Tarquinii  were  saved  from  the  general  massacre 
which  ensued  on  the  taking  of  the  town,  and  were  sent 
prisoners  to  Rome,  there  to  be  “scourged  with  rods 
and  then  beheaded  in  the  Forum” — in  retaliation  for 
the  deed  of  the  Etruscan  priesthood  four  years  before, 
The  people  of  Caere  had  found  the  bond  of  their  com¬ 
mon  Etruscan  blood  too  strong  not  to  join  Tarquinii  in 
levying  war  against  Rome;  but  when  they  humbly  dep 
recated  punishment,  tho  Romans  were  magnanimous 
gpough  |q  remember  only  the  shelter  they  hed  givep, 


CONQUEST  OF  LAT1UM. 


77 


in  the  terrible  days  of  the  Gauls,  to  the  Vestal  Virgins 
and  the  Sacred  Fire.  In  the  midst  of  all  these  difficul¬ 
ties,  two  more  new  tribes  were  added  to  the  population 
of  Rome — probably  from  the  conquered  or  submitted 
Volscians. 

We  are  now  to  enter  upon  a  period  which  the  histo¬ 
rian  is  careful  to  inform  us  he  considers  the  most 
momentous  in  the  history  of  Rome. 

“The  watv  we  have  to  relate  from  this  point  onwards  are 
greater,  whether  as  regards  the  strength  of  the  enemy ,  the  dis¬ 
tance  of  the  scene  of  action,  or  the  length  of  the  war.  For 
in  this  year  hostilities  began  with  the  Samnites,  a  people  power¬ 
ful  alike  in  wealth  and  in  arms.  This  war  with  the  Samnites,  in 
which  the  struggle  was  long  and  doubtful,  was  followed  by  the 
attack  of  Pyrrhus,  and  Pyrrhus  by  the  Carthaginians.” — (vii.  29.) 

These  Samnites,  with  whom  Rome  now  began  a 
struggle  which  was  to  last,  with  little  intermission,  for 
more  than  fifty  years,  were  of  Sabine  extraction,  occu¬ 
pying  that  district  of  the  Apennines  now  known  as  the 
Matese,  and  thence  extending  their  conquests  into  the 
plains  of  Campania.  Here  they  came  into  collision 
with  the  Romans.  In  the  course  of  one  of  their  inroads 
they  threatened  Capua;  and  the  men  of  that  city,  after 
ineffectual  attempts  to  drive  them  off,  sought  aid  from 
Rome.  With  some  reluctance,  the  annalist  says — for 
there  was  an  old  convention  existing  with  the  Sam¬ 
nites — the  aid  was  given,  so  far  that  envoys  were  sent 
to  request  them  not  to  meddle  with  the  friends  of 
Rome.  The  Samnites  treated  the  message  with  con¬ 
tempt,  and  the  Roman  Consuls  took  the  field  at  once. 
One  of  them  was  Valerius,  “the  Crow,”  the  darling  of 
the  soldiers,  not  only  from  his  recent  exploit,  but  from 
his  genial  manners,  his  hearty  good  comradeship,  and 
his  excellence  in  all  athletic  games.  Their  victory 


78 


LIVY. 


was  complete,  30,000  of  the  enemy  being  cut  to  pieces 
in  the  first  battle,  won  by  the  gallantry  of  one  of  the  con¬ 
sul’s  lieutenants,  Decius  Mus,  and  their  came  taken, 
and  40,000  shields  left  on  the  field  of  battle  in  a  second 
engagement.*  Capua  was  garrisoned  by  the  Ro¬ 
mans  ;  but  the  luxury  and  idleness  of  a  winter 
spent  in  that  city,  we  are  told,  corrupted  the  sol¬ 
diers.  A  serious  mutiny  was  the  consequence, 
which  threatened  the  safety  of  Rome,  until  Valerius 
(appointed  Dictator  in  the  emergency)  quieted  it  by  his 
wise  mediation;  a  general  amnesty  was  granted,  and 
the  troops  returned  to  their  duty. 

But  the  demands  which  the  soldiers  are  said  to  have 
made,  that  no  man  who  had  served  during  one  cam¬ 
paign  in  a  higher  rank  should  in  the  next  be  called  upon 
to  accept  a  lower — that  no  man’s  name  should  be  struck 
off  the  roll  without  his  own  consent — and  that  the  dis¬ 
proportionate  pay  of  the  cavalry  should  be  reduced — 
point  to  other  elements  of  discontent  than  the  dissipa¬ 
tions  of  Capua.  The  movement  amongst  the  troops 
was  probably  connected  with  a  new  agitation  amongst 
the  commons  in  their  civil  capacity;  for  coincident  in 
time  we  find  two  measures  proposed  and  apparently 
carried  by  one  of  the  tribunes,  which  Livy  dismisses  in 
a  very  few  lines,  but  which  must  have  been  of  great 
political  significance :  first,  that  it  should  be  absolutely 
illegal  to  lend  money  at  interest;  secondly,  that  no  man 
should  be  re-elected  to  the  same  magistracy  within  ten 
years  (a  check  upon  the  monopoly  of  public  office  by 

*  “  We  have  no  real  history  of  the  Samnite  war  in  this  first 
campaign,  but  accounts  of  the  worthy  deeds  of  two  famous 
Romans,  M.  Valerius  Corvus  and  P.  Decius  Mus.  They  are  the 
heroes  of  the  two  stories,  and  there  is  evidently  no  other 
object  in  either  of  them  but  to  set  off  their  glory.”— Arnold. 


CONQUEST  OF  LATTUM. 


79* 

the  great  houses);  and  lastly,  that  as  one  consul  now 
must  be,  so  in  future  both  consuls  might  be,  plebeians. 

The  next  year  saw  a  change  in  the  relations  of  Rome 
and  her  neighbors  which  is  not  very  easy  to  comprehend. 
The  Samnites  had  made  a  truce  with  Rome;  but  the  war 
in  Campania  still  went  on,  and  the  towns  which  werei^ 
hard  pressed  by  the  Samnites  turned  to  the  Latin  league 
for  the  protection  which  was  refused  them  from  Rome. 
The  Roman  annalist  assures  us  that  the  Latins  eagerly 
seized  on  the  opportunity  to  engage  the  Campanians  in 
a  conspiracy  against  the  supremacy  of  Rome;  but  it  is 
more  than  possible  that  they  were  indignant  at  the 
separate  peace  which  Rome,  for  her  own  ends,  had  made 
with  the  common  enemy.  Be  this  as  it  may,  the  Latins 
were  summoned  to  send  envoys  to  Rome  to  explain 
their  intentions.  When  they  arrived,  they  made  a  pro¬ 
posal  as  to  the  terms  of  alliance  for  the  future  which 
was  probably  not  so  unreasonable  in  itself  as  it  would 
appear  to  a  Roman.  It  was,  that  on  condition  of  Rome 
being  still  acknowledged  as  head  of  the  confederacy, 
one  of  her  two  consuls,  and  half  of  the  senate,  should 
henceforth  be  chosen  from  the  Latins. 

Then  Titus  Manlius  “  of  the  Torque,”  newly  elected 
consul,  rose  in  his  place,  and  loudly  declared  that 
should  the  Roman  senate  be  cowardly  enough  to  sub¬ 
mit  to  such  dictation  from  “provincials,”  he  would 
slay  with  his  own  hand  the  first  Latin  who  dared  to  take 
his  seat  there.  Amidst  general  indignation,  he  vehe¬ 
mently  invoked  the  gods  of  Rome  against  such  a  prof  ana 
tion.  The  Latin  envoy,  quitting  the  senate-house  in 
haste,  fell  headlong  down  the  steps  and  wras  taken  up 
senseless.  Manlius  pronounced  it  a  judgment  from  the 
insulted  deities,  and  a  happy  omen  for  the  Roman 
cause.  War  was  declared  at  once  against  the  Latins; 


80 


LIVY. 


both  consuls  set  Oiit  for  Capua,  and  by  a  curious  shift¬ 
ing  of  relations,  the  Samnites  now  found  themselves,  in 
virtue  of  the  late  truce,  the  allies  of  Rome. 

The  foe  with  whom  Rome  was  now  engaged  was  more 
formidable  than  the  Samnites.  The  struggle  against 
the  Latins,  says  the  annalist,  had  many  of  the  features 
of  a  civil  war.  Romans  and  Latins  spoke  the  same 
language,  worshipped  the  same  gods,  had  married  into 
each  other’s  families,  and  fought  side  by  side  against 
the  same  enemies.  “There  was  nothing,”  says  Livy, 
“in  which  the  Latins  differed  from  the  Romans,  ex¬ 
cept  in  courage,” — but  here  we  must  remember  it  is  a 
Roman  who  speaks.  The  struggle  was  sharp  and 
bloody;  but,  perhaps  for  the  same  reasons,  it  was  com¬ 
paratively  short. 

Possibly  it  was  the  feeling  that  they  were  now  in  face 
ot  an  enemy  to  whom  Roman  tactics  and  modes  of 
warfare  were  thoroughly  familiar,  which  led  to  the 
stern  instance  of  military  discipline  recorded  of  the 
consul  Manlius.  He  had  given  strict  orders  that  there 
was  to  be  no  independent  personal  fighting  in  front  of 
the  lines.  His  own  son  was  in  command  of  a  troop  of 
light  cavalry,  employed  to  reconnoitre.  He  was  chal¬ 
lenged  by  a  captain  of  Tusculan  horse,  and,  ‘provoked 
by  his  taunts,  fought  and  killed  him.  It  was  in  vain 
that  he  pleaded  his  father’s  own  precedent  in  the  case  of 
the  Gaul ;  the  consul — as  stern  a  parent  as  he  had  been 
a  dutiful  son — would  see  nothing  in  the  case  but  a  wilful 
breach  of  discipline — a  double  act  of  disobedience  to 
his  chief  and  to  his  father.  The  only  compliment  he 
paid  his  son  was  to  say  he  knew  that,  like  a  true  Man¬ 
lius,  he  would  bear  his  doom  bravely.  He  was  be¬ 
headed  in  the  presence  of  the  army,  amid  the  lamenta¬ 
tions  of  his  comrades,  and  their  bitter  execrations  on 


CONQUEST  OF  LATIUM.  81 

the  father;  but  the  consul’s  orders  were  obeyed  thence¬ 
forth.* 

When  the  engagement  took  place — somewhere  in  the 
neighborhood  of  Mount  Vesuvius — an  act  of  heroism  of 
another  character,  yet  still  thoroughly  Roman,  gave  to 
the  name  of  its  hero  a  lasting  place  in  Roman  memory. 
The  second  Roman  consul  was  Decius  Mus,  one  of  the 
heroes  of  the  late  Samnite  war.  Both  consuls  had  seen 
a  vision  in  the  night,  warning  them  that  the  gods 
required  as  the  victims  “  an  army  on  the  one  side,  and 
a  general  on  the  other.”  They  at  once  made  a  joint 
resolve  that  if  either  of  the  Roman  wings  gave  way,  the 
commander  of  that  wing  should  devote  himself  to  death. 
When  the  usual  sacrifices  were  offered  before  the  battle, 
it  was  announced  that  the  omens  were  fatal  for  Decius. 
He  simply  answered  that  “  it  was  well,  if  those  of  his 
colleague  were  favorable.”  In  the  battle,  his  wing 
began  to  give  ground.  He  at  once  summoned  the 
Pontifex — the  official  who  must  give  directions. 

“The  Pontifex  hade  him  put  on  his  official  civic  robe,  veil  his 
head,  and  place  his  hand  beneath  his  toga  upon  his  chin;  then 
standing  on  a  spear  placed  under  his  feet,  to  say  these  words: 
‘  O  Janus,  Jupiter,  our  Father  Mars,  Quirinus,  Bellona,  ye  Lares, 
ye  Nine-Fold  deities, t  gods  of  our  nation,  gods  in  whose  hands 
are  we  and  our  enemies,  I  pray  you,  I  adore  you,  I  ask  and  win 
your  pardon,— that  to  the  Roman  people  of  the  Quirites  ye  may 
vouchsafe  strength  and  victory,  and  strike  the  enemies  of  the 
Roman  people  of  the  Quirites  with  terror,  panic,  and  death. 
And  as  I  pronounce  these  words,  so  for  the  republic  of  the  Quiri¬ 
tes,  for  the  army,  legions,  and  allies  of  the  Roman  people,  I  de- 


*  This  severity  of  discipline  was  a  national  tradition  with  the 
Romans.  A  Posthumius  is  said  to  have  done  the  same  thing 
previously  in  a  war  with  the  Volscians.  Livy  does  not  credit  the 
story ;  but  an  allusion  in  Aulus  Gellius  shows  that  it  was  current-? 
ly  believed.  See  Book  iv.  e4h  Mb  Gefi.  i,  18. 
t  Tbes^  are  uncertain 


LIVY. 


83 


vote  the  legions  and  allies  of  the  enemy,  together  with  mine  own 
body,  to  the  Manes  and  the  Earth.’  When  he  had  thus  prayed, 
he  bade  his  lictors  go  to  Manlius,  and  straightway  tell  him  he 
had  devoted  himself  for  the  army.  Girding  his  robe  round  him, 
he  leapt  on  his  horse,  fully  armed,  and  charged  into  the  centre 
of  the  enemy.  Both  hosts  saw  in  him  a  more  than  mortal  pres¬ 
ence,  as  though  he  were  sent  from  heaven  as  a  vessel  charged 
with  the  whole  wrath  of  the  gods,  to  turn  destruction  from  his 
own  host  and  hurl  it  on  the  enemy.  So  the  panic  and  terror  he 
bore  with  him  first  shook  the  enemy’s  front,  then  spread  through 
all  their  ranks.  Certain  it  is,  that  wherever  he  rode,  there  men 
trembled  as  though  struck  by  pestilence.”— (viii.  9.) 

A  stratagem  of  the  other  consul’s — bringing  up  his 
veterans  only  at  the  last — completed  the  victory  which 
this  panic  had  begun.  “We  find  in  some  writers,”  says 
Livy,  “  that  the  Samnites,  who  had  waited  to  see  what 
turn  the  fighting  wTould  take,  came  up  to  help  the 
Romans  after  the  day  was  won.”*  Scarcely  a  fourth 
part  of  the  enemy’s  force,  we  are  told,  escaped  the 
slaughter;  their  camp  was  taken,  and  the  Latin  power 
utterly  broken.  They  succeeded  in  raising  a  fresh  army, 
only  to  be  beaten  again  by  the  same  consul.  Many  of 
their  towns  surrendered  at  once;  and  after  a  few  in¬ 
effectual  struggles,  the  conquest  was  complete.  Within 
three  years  of  its  beginning,  the  greatest  war  in  which 
Rome  had  yet  been  engaged  was  finished:  the  great  Latin 
confederacy  was  broken  up  for  ever;  terms  granted  to 
each  separate  city  were  such  as  to  isolate  them  as  far  as 
possible,  and  prevent  any  such  union  for  the  future; 
and  the  Romans  and  Latins  became  practically  one  com¬ 
monwealth. 


*  “There  was  no  Samnite  historian  to  tell,  and  no  Roman 
annalist  would  tell  truly.  Nor  need  wre  wonder  at  this;  for  if  we 
had  only  certain  English  accounts  of  the  battle  of  Waterloo, 
who  would  know  that  the  Prussians  had  any  effectual  share  in 
that  day’s  victory?’  ’—Arnold. 


ROMANS  BECOME  MASTERS  OF  ITALY.  83 


Manlius  was  honored,  at  the  expiration  of  his  consul¬ 
ship,  with  a  well-earned  triumph.  But  it  had  its  draw¬ 
backs.  “  Only  the  older  men  went  forth  to  meet  him; 
the  younger,  both  then  and  all  his  life  after,  abhorred 
and  execrated  him.”  Such  is  the  historian’s  brief  but 
emphatic  remark.  They  remembered  only  the  unre¬ 
lenting  sentence  which  had  taken  the  life  of  his  son. 

V 

CHAPTER  YI. 

THE  ROMANS  BECOME  MASTERS  OF  ITALY. 

(books  viii.-x.  b.c.  327-290.) 

Rome  and  Samnium  were  both  too  warlike,  and  per¬ 
haps  both  too  ambitious,  long  to  remain  peaceful  neigh- 
bors.  When  the  war  with  the  Latins  was  over,  and 
neither  required  each  other’s  support  against  a  common 
enemy,  they  watched  each  other’s  movements  with  jeal¬ 
ous  eyes.  The  Samnites  took  Fregellse  from  the  Vol- 
scians,  and  destroyed  it;  the  Romans  afterwards  sent  a 
colony  to  occupy  it,  as  its  position  was  important  in 
maintaining  their  line  of  communication  with  Samnium ; 
though  this  was,  in  fact,  taking  possession  of  a  Samnite 
conquest.  The  Samnites,  on  the  other  hand,  were  ac¬ 
cused  of  exciting  to  disaffection,  secretly  or  openly, 
some  of  the  smaller  states  within  the  Roman  dominion. 
War  was  inevitable,  and  both  were  prepared  for  it. 

The  first  action  of  any  importance  resulted  in  a  vic¬ 
tory  gained  by  the  Romans  under  somewhat  remarkable 
circumstances.  Papirius  Cursor  had  been  named  Dic¬ 
tator  for  the  war,  and  had  strictly  charged  his  Master 
of  the  Horse — a  Fabius — not  to  engage  the  enemy  in 
his  absence.  But  Fabius  found  the  temptation  of  com¬ 
mand  too  strong,  and  fought  and  defeated  the  Samnites 


84 


LIVY. 


— Livy  assures  us,  with  immense  loss.  The  Dictator, 
on  his  return,  sentenced  him  to  death  for  breach  of 
orders.  The  troops  broke  out  into  almost  open  mutiny; 
the  Dictator  was  obstinate;  and  the  terrible  precedent 
set  by  Manlius  seemed  likely  to  be  repeated  with  highly 
dangerous  results.  Fabius  escaped  to  Rome:  there  his 
aged  father  appealed  on  his  behalf  to  the  tribunes,  but 
even  they  were  loath  to  question  a  Dictator’s  sentence; 
and  it  was  not  until  the  senate  and  people  united  to  ask 
the  life  of  the  culprit  as  a  boon  to  themselves,  that  Pa- 
pirius  at  last  gave  way.  Fabius  was  chosen  one  of  the 
consuls  next  year;  and  after  a  truce  which  the  Roman 
annalist  accuses  the  Samnites  of  having  broken,  he  de¬ 
feated  them  in  a  decisive  battle,  and  reduced  them  to 
offer  terms  which  are  represented  as  humiliating  in  the 
extreme.  They  even  proposed  to  give  up  to  the  Romans 
one  of  their  chiefs,  whom  they  declared  to  have  been 
the  instigator  of  what  they  now  confessed  to  have  been 
“a  treacherous  breach  of  faith.”  He  saved  himself  from 
Roman  vengeance  by  suicide. 

But  in  the  next  year  arose  the  man  who  has  been 
called  the  Samnite  Hannibal  —  Pontius  of  Telesia. 
Under  his  able  leadership  took  place  what  Livy  calls 
“  the  Convention  of  Caudium,  so  memorable  for  the 
blow  that  fell  on  Rome.”  The  annalist,  never  happy 
in  his  military  geography,  is  content  here  to  make  no 
attempt  to  explain  the  movements  of  the  campaign. 
We  learn  little  more  than  that  the  Romans  were  led  by 
false  information  into  a  difficult  defile  of  the  Apennines, 
known  as  the  “  Caudine  Forks,”  where  the  enemy  had 
already  posted  themselves  in  force,  and  from  which 
pejther  advance  nor  retreat  was  possible.*  After  one 


$  The  place  caunot  be  fagged  wjtfi  Cfftftlijty,  Niebuhr  an<f 


HOMANS  BECOME  MASTERS  OF  ITALY.  85 


or  two  desperate  attempts  to  break  through,  seeing  star¬ 
vation  imminent,  they  surrendered  at  discretion.  The 
Samnites  could  not  resolve  how  best  to  use  their  vic¬ 
tory.  They  sent  to  consult  Herennius,  father  of  their 
general,  who  passed  for  the  wisest  man  amongst  his  peo¬ 
ple.  The  old  man’s  first  advice  was  to  let  their  prisoners 
all  go  unharmed;  and  when  this  was  rejected  as  pre¬ 
posterous,  he  then  recommended  that  they  should  all  be 
put  to  death.  He  defended  this  truly  Machiavellian 
alternative  by  the  argument  that  an  enemy  so  powerful 
could  only  be  safely  dealt  with  either  by  the  most  mag¬ 
nanimous  kindness,  or  by  a  blow  which  would  cripple 
them  for  many  generations.  Neither  counsel  was 
adopted.  Their  lives  were  offered  them  on  condiiton 
of  giving  up  their  arms,  passing  under  the  yoke,  and 
quitting  the  country;  hostages  were  also  to  be  given  for 
the  withdrawal  of  the  Roman  military  colonies,  and  for 
their  keeping  the  peace  for  the  future.  The  troops  are 
said  to  have  exclaimed  loudly  against  such  humiliating 
terms,  and  against  the  consuls.for  submitting  to  them. 
Lentulus,  one  of  the  lieutenant-generals,  reminded  them, 
in  language  which  has  a  certain  nobility  of  its  own,  that 
their  lives  were  needful  to  Rome,  and  that  even  igno¬ 
miny  must  be  submitted  to  in  the  cause  of  one’s  country. 

“While  the  troops  were  thus  chafing  at  their  destiny  the  fatal 
hour  of  their  disgrace  drew  on,  which  was  to  make  their  experi¬ 
ence  even  more  bitter  than  all  their  anticipations.  First  they  were 
ordered  to  come  outside  their  lines  without  arms  and  stripped 
to  a  single  garment;  and  the  hostages  were  first  given  up,  and 
led  off  in  custody.  Then  the  lictors  were  ordered  to  quit  the  con¬ 
suls,  whose  military  cloaks  were  stripped  off ;  which  bred  such 
commiseration  among  the  very  men  who  had  just  been  execrat- 


Amold  are  of  opinion  that  it  was  the  valley  between  Arienzo  and 
Archaia,  on  the  road  from  Naples  to  Benevento. 


86 


LIVY. 


ing  them,  and  saying  they  ought  to  be  given  up  to  their  fury  and 
torn  to  pieces,  that  now  the  soldiers  forgot  their  own  misery, 
and  turned  away  their  eyes  from  this  outrage  to  their  command¬ 
ers  as  from  a  spectacle  too  painful  to  look  upon.  The  consuls 
first,  stripped  almost  naked,  were  forced  under  the  yoke;  then 
each  officer  in  succession,  according  to  his  rank,  was  subjected 
to  the  like  ignominy;  then  the  legions,  one  after  the  other.  The 
enemy  stood  round  under  arms,  reviling  and  mocking  them. 
Swords  were  even  brandished  in  their  faces;  some  were  wounded, 
nay,  even  killed,  if  their  countenance  expressed  too  fierce  a  sense 
of  the  indignity,  and  so  offended  their  conquerors.— (ix.  6,  7.) 

They  made  their  way  to  Capua,  where  they  were  re¬ 
ceived  with  kindness  and  commiseration.  Thence  they 
returned  in  disorganized  parties  to  Rome,  “slinking 
into  the  city  late  in  the  evening  like  delinquents,”  and 
hiding  themselves  at  home  for  many  days  from  the 
eyes  of  their  indignant  fellow-citizens.  The  consuls 
silently  abdicated  their  functions,  and  a  Dictator  was 
again  named. 

The  terms  of  the  convention  were  shamefully  broken 
by  the  Romans;  the  annalist  himself  utterly  fails  to 
make  out  a  case  of  anything  better  than  the  grossest 
and  most  unworthy  quibbling.  The  treaty — made,  as 
Livy  admits,  by  Roman  consuls  and  tribunes — was  held 
not  to  have  been  made  with  the  consent  of  the  Roman 
people.  Even  if  the  consul  Posthumius  did,  as  we  are 
told,  go  back  and  place  himself  and  his  brother  officers 
in  the  hands  of  the  Samnites,  as  guilty  of  having  made 
terms  which  could  not  be  kept,  such  individual  self  de¬ 
votion  could  not  heal  the  public  breach  of  faith.  The 
only  course  which  might  have  had  any  show  of  fair 
dealing  was,  as  two  of  the  tribunes  suggested,  to  restore 
in  all  points  the  status  quo  at  the  Caudine  Forks  before 
the  surrender;  but  this  suggestion  did  not  gain  a  mo¬ 
ment’s  hearing. 

The  Samnite  general  acted  with  a  noble  scorn.  He 


ROMANS  BECOME  MASTERS  OF  ITALY.  87 


refused  to  accept  the  victims  whom  Rome  offered  him  in¬ 
stead  of  justice;  and  wdien  the  consul  Posthumius,  with 
a  mean  ingenuity,  declaring  himself  to  have  changed 
his  nationality  by  this  extradition  of  himself,  struck  the 
Roman  herald,  and  declared  that  such  an  act  of  vio¬ 
lence,  thus  committed  by  “a  Samnite,”  would  justify 
the  Romans  in  at  once  beginning  w7ar,  Pontius  merely 
expressed  his  contempt  of  such  a  subterfuge  as  “a 
mockery  of  conscience  unworthy  of  children,  still  more 
of  elders  and  consulars  of  a  great  state,”  and  appealed 
to  the  gods  of  battle  against  the  treachery  of  Rome. 

But  the  gods  were  not  propitious.  Though  the  Sam- 
nites  renewed  the  struggle,  and  maintained  it  for  three- 
and-twenty  years,  and  though  the  Hernicans  took  the 
opportunity  to  revolt,  and  almost  all  Etruria  rose  in 
arms  against  the  Romans,  the  result,  in  spite  of  occa¬ 
sional  reverses,  was  still  in  favor  of  Rome.  Livy  him¬ 
self  admits  that  the  annals  of  this  period  are  hopelessly 
confused,  and  it  would  be  out  of  place  here  to  examine 
them.  One  story  which  bears  the  stamp  of  invention  on 
the  face  of  it,  asserts  that  in  the  very  first  year  of  the 
renewed  war,  the  Samnite  general,  Pontius  Telesinus, 
and  his  own  whole  army,  had  in  their  turn  to  pass  under 
the  yoke,  and  that  all  the  arms  and  standards  lost  by  the 
Romans  at  the  Caudine  Forks  were  in  the  same  battle 
recovered.  This  victory  is  ascribed  to  Papirius  Cursor, 
as  then  consul:  a  hero  who,  celebrated  alike  for  his  fleet¬ 
ness  of  foot  (whence  his  surname  of  Cursor),  his  bodily 
strength,  and  his  great  capacity  for  eating  and  drinking, 
reminds  us  of  some  of  the  knights  of  the  Round  Table. 
Livy  considers  that  Alexander  the  Great,  if  after  con¬ 
quering  Asia  he  had  turned  his  arms  on  Europe,  might 
have  met  with  his  match  in  the  great  Roman  Dictator. 
To  Papirius  is  at  least  due  the  honor  of  turning  the  tide 


88 


LIVY. 


decisively  in  this  second  Saranite  war  by  a  great  victory 
in  the  Samnite  territory,  though  the  scene  of  it  is  uncer¬ 
tain.  The  triumph  which  was  accorded  to  him  was  long 
remembered  for  its  magnificence;  the  splendid  armor, 
inlaid  with  gold  and  silver,  the  gilded  shields  and 
brilliant  costumes  stripped  from  the  Samnite  warriors, 
especially  from  their  “Sacred  Band,”  made  a  display 
never  before  seen  at  Rome.  The  shields  were  lono* 

O 

after  used  on  public  occasions  to  decorate  the  Forum, 
The  war  lingered  on  for  some  four  years  more,  until  it 
was  closed  by  another  great  defeat  of  the  enemy  at  Bo- 
vianum,  where  their  general,  Statius  Gellius,  and  a 
large  body  of  troops,  were  made  prisoners,  and  the 
Samnites  were  reduced  to  sue  for  peace. 

During  the  years  occupied  by  this  second  Samnite 
war,  the  annalist  has  noted  some  points  of  internal  his¬ 
tory  which  deserve  attention.  One  specially  he  terms, 
not  without  reason,  “a  second  starting-point  of  lib¬ 
erty.”  It  was  the  abolition  of  the  power  of  imprison¬ 
ment  for  debt.  He  refers  the  passing  of  this  law  to  the 
popular  indignation  excited  by  the  outrageous  cruelty 
practiced  on  an  unhappy  debtor  by  one  of  the  Papirii, 
a  house  whose  members  appear  to  have  been  men  of 
violent  passions :  but  it  was  probably  a  result  which  had 
been  only  waiting  for  its  accomplishment.  A  member 
of  another  illustrious  house — Appius  Claudius  “  the 
Blind,”  great-grandson  of  the  Decemvir — had  made  him¬ 
self  famous  during  the  same  period  in  more  ways  than 
one.  He  will  best  be  remembered  by  the  great  public 
works  carried  out  during  his  tenure  of  the  censorship 
and  subsequent  consulate:  the  earliest  of  those  gigantic 
aqueducts  which,  even  in  their  ruins,  strike  us  to  this 
day  with  admiration ;  and  more  famous  still,  the  great 
road  connecting  Rome  with  Capua,  known  as  the  Appi- 


ROMANS  BECOME  MASTERS  OF  ITALY.  89 


an  Way.  Nothing  so  great  had  been  attempted  since 
those  Etruscan  works  which  are  ascribed  to  the  Tar- 
quins.  Diodorus  tells  us  that  they  exhausted  the  whole 
revenue  of  Rome:  Niebuhr  considers  that  some  of  the 
state  domain  must  have  been  alienated  to  provide  for 
their  cost.  But  they  were  not  the  result  of  the  forced 
labor  of  the  Roman  commons,  which  made  the  build¬ 
ings  under  the  “  Tyrants”  such  a  hateful  memory:  they 
probably  furnished  employment  for  the  large  bodies  of 
Samnite  or  other  prisoners,  and  so  may  have  been  com¬ 
pleted  at  comparatively  little  cost  to  the  state.  Appius, 
when  in  power,  showed  the  lofty  and  arrogant  spirit  of 
his  family.  He  held  his  office  of  censor — in  direct  defi¬ 
ance,  it  would  appear,  of  the  law  to  the  contrary — for 
the  full  period  of  five  years,  which  was  the  nominal  du¬ 
ration  of  the  appointment,  and  gave  offence  not  only  to 
the  old  patrician  houses,  but  even  to  the  moderate 
party,  by  placing  on  the  roll  of  senators  men  who  had 
no  title  to  the  honor  except  their  wealth.  His  object 
may  fairly  be  suspected  to  have  been  to  attach  such 
men  to  his  own  private  interests  by  this  obligation.  He 
was  the  author  of  some  other  popular  measures  which 
may  have  had  the  same  bearing;  amongst  them,  the 
causing  to  be  published  a  kind  of  calendar  containing 
the  rubrics,  as  they  might  be  called,  of  the  pontifical 
law,  which  made  days  lawful  or  unlawful  for  the  trans¬ 
action  of  business — a  technical  knowledge  for  which, 
hitherto,  people  had  to  depend  upon  the  “colleges”  of 
pontifices  and  augurs,  whose  members  were  always  of 
the  patrician  order.  A  few  years  afterwards  followed 
an  Act  (the  Ogulnian  Law)  which  opened  these  colleges 
to  the  plebeians,  and  removed  another  of  the  few  remain, 
ing  disabilities,  now  chiefly  religious,  of  that  order. 
The  Valerian  kaw-rpermitting  appeal  ivm  W  magis, 


90 


LIVY. 


i 


trate  to  the  people — which  seems  to  have  been  virtually 
in  abeyance,  was  in  the  same  year  formally  re-enacted. 

The  iEquians,  who  had  given  the  Romans  no  trouble 
since  the  days  of  the  Gaulish  invasion,  had  joined  the 
Samnites  in  the  last  war,  and  the  first  step  now  taken 
was  their  chastisement.  Standing  alone,  as  they  did, 
since  the  submission  of  the  Samnites,  they  were  no 
match  for  the  Romans.  In  fifty  days,  says  the  annalist, 
the  consuls  took  forty-one  of  their  towns  and  “all  but 
blotted  out  their  very  name  from  under  heaven.”  They 
were  yet  strong  enough,  however,  to  make  show  of  re¬ 
volt  from  time  to  time.  What  he  calls  a  “  trifling  ex¬ 
pedition”  was  also  undertaken  against  some  Umbrian 
banditti  (so  they  are  termed)  who  had  been  troublesome; 
and  by  one  of  those  merciless  proceedings  not  uncom¬ 
mon  with  the  Romans,  two  thousand  of  them  were  de¬ 
liberately  smoked  to  death  in  a  cave. 

Some  little  difficulties  occurred  with  the  Marsians  and 
Etruscans;  and  the  hostilities  with  these  latter  people 
led  to  a  third  and  last  Samnite  war.  The  hopes  of 
Samnium  were  raised  by  a  new  inroad  of  the  Gauls  into 
Etruria.  The  Etruscans — following  in  this  the  Roman 
precedent — are  said  to  have  paid  them  a  large  sum  as 
blackmail  to  induce  them  to  withdraw,  and  further,  to 
purchase  their  aid  against  Rome.*  It  seems  certain,  at 
all  events,  that  the  Gauls  threatened  Rome,  aud  that 
the  Samnites  took  advantage  of  the  opportunity  to 
make  every  effort  to  form  a  grand  coalition  against  her. 
They  were  already  extending  their  own  conquests  in 
Lucania,  from  which  district  envoys  were  sent  to  en¬ 
treat  aid  from  Rome.  The  Samnites  haughtily  refused 


*  The  version  which  Livy  gives  of  this  transaction  is  contra¬ 
dicted  by  Polybius, 


ROMANS  BROOME  MASTERS  OF  ITALY.  01 


to  listen  to  any  remonstrance,  or  to  withdraw  their 
troops,  and  war  was  at  once  declared  by  the  Romans. 

The  account  given  'of  the  ensuing  campaign,  in 
which  the  first  Scipio  that  we  meet  in  history  com¬ 
manded  as  consul,  is  far  from  clear  or  satisfactory: 
but  it  seems  plain  that,  in  spite  of  victories  claimed 
and  recorded,  the  Romans  were  in  some  straits,  since 
they  called  on  Quintus  Fabius  in  his  old  age,  and  in 
spite  of  his  reluctance,  to  accept  the  consulship.  But 
Etruria  began  to  waver  and  talk  of  peace;  and  both 
consuls  marched  victoriously  through  Samnium,  laying 
all  waste  with  fire  and  sword  where  they  went.  But 
the  Gauls  appear  again  in  Etruria — hired  by  Etruscan 
gold,  as  Livy  tells  us — and  the  Samuite  general  (another 
of  the  family  of  Gellius)  took  the  bold  step,  which  Livy’s 
want  of  military  knowledge  prevents  him  from  ap¬ 
preciating,  of  leaving  his  own  country  in  the  desperate 
state  it  was,  and  making  a  countermarch  into  Etruria, 
to  fix  its  wavering  allegiance  by  the  presence  of  himself 
and  a  Samnite  army.  Whilst  the  consuls,  with  all  the 
available  force  of  Rome,  marched  into  Etruria  to  meet 
him,  another  Samnite  army  threw  itself  into  Campania, 
and  laid  waste  the  actual  territory  of  the  city  of  Rome. 
The  alarm  within  the  city  itself  was  greater  than  it  had 
been  since  the  approach  of  the  Gauls;  and  the  danger 
of  the  situation  was  increased  by  personal  disputes  be¬ 
tween  the  consuls.  However,  the  Samnites  were 
checked;  and  if  we  cannot  trust  the  accounts  which 
these  Annals  give  us  of  two  great  victories,  at  least  the 
success  was  sufficient  to  place  Rome  in  safety.*  The 

*  Livy  says  that  in  the  second  of  these  victories,  besides  killing 
6000  of  the  enemy,  and  taking  2500  prisoners,  the  Romans  “  re¬ 
covered  7400”  who  had  been  made  prisoners.  This  is  proving 
somewhat  too  much. 


LIVY. 


confederate  forces,  bound  together  by  no  common  inte¬ 
rest  except  enmity  to  Rome,  did  not  long  continue  to 
act  in  concert;  the  Etruscans  and  Umbrians  preferred 
to  defend  their  own  country,  and  the  Samnites  and 
Gauls  had  to  give  up  their  march  upon  the  city,  and 
draw  back  upon  the  Apennines,  followed  by  both  Ro¬ 
man  consuls  and  their  armies. 

They  were  brought  to  battle  at  Sentinum.  Fabius 
commanded  on  the  right  against  the  Samnites;  his  col¬ 
league  Decius  on  the  left  fronted  the  Gauls.  He  found 
these  dreaded  antagonists  as  hard  to  deal  with  as  their 
ancestors.  Twice,  when  his  infantry  seemed  to  make 
no  impression,  he  charged  in  person  at  the  head  of  his 
cavalry,  and  with  success.  But  as  they  rode  forward 
they  came  upon  a  new  and  bewildering  enemy— -the 
war-chariots  of  the  Gauls;  at  sight  of  which,  and  the 
rattle  of  their  wheels,  the  Roman  horses  took  fright  and 
the  panic  spreading  to  the  riders,  they  wheeled  and 
took  to  flight,  communicating  their  owTn  terror  and  con¬ 
fusion  to  the  ranks  of  the  legionaries.  The  battle  on 
the  left  seemed  hopelessly  lost ;  when  Decius,  after  try¬ 
ing  in  vain  to  rally  his  men  by  desperate  personal  exer¬ 
tions,  bethought  himself  of  the  heroism  of  his  father. 
“It  is  the  privilege  of  our  house/’  he  said  with  a  stern 
pride,  ‘  ‘  to  sacrifice  ourselves  as  the  ransom  of  our  coun¬ 
try.”  Like  his  father,  he  called  upon  the  Pontifex  to 
recite  the  formula  of  self-devotion,  and  added  words  of 
terrible  imprecation  of  his  own. 

“  I  send  before  me  where  I  go  Panic  and  Rout,  Blood  and 
Slaughter,  the  curse  of  the  gods  above  and  of  the  gods  below;  I 
involve  with  myself  in  destruction  the  standards,  the  weapons, 
the  armor  of  the  enemy;  be  the  fate  of  the  Gauls  and  the  Sam¬ 
nites  even  the  same  as  mine!” 

So,  like  his  father,  wrapping  his  cloak  round  him,  he 


ROMANS  BECOME  MASTERS  OF  ITALY.  93 


charged  where  the  enemy  were  thickest,  and  fell  cov¬ 
ered  with  wounds.  But  not  even  all  the  faith  of  the 
Roman  legionaries  in  this  heroic  act  of  self-sacrifice  as 
“  the  price  of  victory”  could  break  the  steady  masses  of 
the  Gauls;  and  had  not  Fabius  been  in  a  position  by 
this  time  to  reinforce  his  left  wing,  the  Romans  would 
have  been  beaten.  But  he  had  broken  the  Samnites  af¬ 
ter  an  obstinate  fight;  and  while  he  drove  them  to  their 
camp,  he  now  detached  a  force  of  cavalry  and  infantry 
to  take  the  Gauls  in  rear.  The  victory  was  soon  com¬ 
plete:  the  Samnite  general  fell  defending  his  camp,  and 
his  troops,  retaining  their  ranks  and  formation,  re¬ 
treated  sullenly  from  the  hard-fought  field.  The  an¬ 
nalist  gives  the  loss  of  the  enemy  at  25,000  killed,  and 
8000  prisoners;  possibly  not  much  exaggerated,  since 
he  admits  a  loss  on  the  Roman  side,  in  killed  alone,  of 
8200—7000  of  them  in  the  wing  commanded  by  Decius: 

It  was  a  great  victory,  won  at  a  heavy  cost;  and 
though  the  Samnites  maintained  a  gallant  struggle  for 
nearly  two  years  more,  their  efforts  must  have  seemed 
even  to  themselves  almost  desperate.  The  solemn  cere¬ 
monies  with  which  they  prepared  for  their  last  campaign 
seem  to  show  that  they  were  consciously  playing  their 
last  stake.  A  levy  en  masse  was  raised  throughout 
Samnium  of  all  who  were  able  to  bear  arms,  who  had  to 
serve  on  pain  of  death;  and  an  ancient  and  mysterious 
ceremony  was  revived  by  an  aged  priest — “out  of  an 
ancient  linen  roll,”— by  which  each  individual  soldier 
was  brought  up  to  the  altar — “  more  like  a  victim  than 
a  worshipper” — and  compelled  to  swear  fidelity  to  his 
leaders  to  the  death,  and  vengeance  on  any  comrade 
who  should  desert  his  ranks.  Some  who  refused  the 
oath  were  slain,  we  are  assured,  on  the  spot,  and  the 
swearing-in  of  the  rest  went  on  over  their  dead  bodies? 


94 


LIVY. 


A  picked  body  of  16,000,  splendidly  armed  and 
equipped,  was  thus  formed  by  co-optation — each  man, 
after  the  first  ten,  choosing  for  himself  a  comrade  till 
the  number  was  complete,  avIio  from  their  white  dress 
were  known  as  the  “Linen  Legion.” 

But  the  historian  thinks  that  these  stern  vows  of  obli¬ 
gation  rather  awed  the  soldiers  into  obedience  than  gave 
them  spirit  to  fight.  They  fought,  he  says,  chiefly  be¬ 
cause  they  dared  not  fly,  and  “feared  their  comrades 
more  than  their  enemy.”  He  has  another  victory  of  the 
Romans  to  record,  before  he  closes  this  last  book  of  his 
First  Decade.  He  closes  it  before  the  “  Samnite  Han¬ 
nibal”  reappears  once  more  upon  the  field  (we  cannot 
but  wonder  why  he  has  been  absent  so  long);  before 
Pontius  of  Telesina,  the  hero  of  theClaudine  Pass,  turns 
the  tide  of  battle  for  a  season,  and  defeats  a  Roman 
consul;  and  before  he  is  himself  in  turn  defeated  by  the 
Fabii,  father  and  son,  with  the  loss  of  20,000  men,  and 
taken  prisoner  to  Rome,  and  so  the  great  Samnite  wars 
were  ended.  And  we  are  spared  from  reading  in  his 
page  show,  to  the  eternal  disgrace  of  Rome,  after  having 
been  led  in  chains  to  grace  the  triumph  of  the  conque¬ 
rors,  the  gallant  Samnite  general  was  beheaded  that 
same  day  in  the  dungeons  of  the  Capitol. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE  LOST  DECADE. 

(b.c.  294-219.) 

The  Second  Decade  of  these  Annals,  from  the 
eleventh  to  the  twentieth  book,  is  lost,  and  leaves  a  gap 
of  seventy-five  years.  In  that  interval  Rome  had 


THE  LOST  DECADE. 


95 


crushed  the  last  opponents  of  her  rule  in  Italy,  had  tried 
her  strength  against  foreign  enemies,  and  begun  to  em 
tertain  the  lust  of  foreign  conquest.  The  city  of  Taren- 
tum  had  sought  to  escape  the  fate  of  its  neighbors  by 
calling  in  the  aid  of  Pyrrhus,  king  of  Epirus;  and  Pyr¬ 
rhus,  who  had  an  ambition  to  become  a  second  Alexan 
der,  gladly  embraced  the  opportunity  of  gaining  a 
footing  in  Italy.  So,  for  the  first  time,  Rome  and 
Greece  met  each  other  in  arms.  The  ability  of  Pyrrhus 
as  a  general,  the  tactics  of  the  Macedonian  phalanx,  with 
which  the  Romans  were  as  yet  unacquainted,  and  the 
terror  and  confusion  created  by  his  elephants,  won  him 
two  great  battles,  and  Rome  had  never  been  in  more 
imminent  danger.  But  Pyrrhus  was  compelled  to  quit 
Italy  by  the  complete  victory  won  by  the  Romans  at 
Beneventum,  b.c.  275;  and  the  Tarentines  had  to  pay 
the  penalty  of  having  called  him  in.  Other  small  states 
made  their  final  submission,  and  in  b.c.  266  the  Romans 
became  the  acknowledged  masters  of  Italy. 

Rome  then  entered  upon  a  new  and  extended  career. 
She  was  tempted  to  interfere  in  Sicily,  where  the 
Carthaginians  were  becoming  a  formidable  power,  in 
too  close  neighborhood  not  to  be  regarded  with  some 
jealousy.  Carthage  was  the  most  flourishing  of  the 
many  Phoenician  colonies,  and  had  become  the  capital 
of  Libya.  Her  merchant  seamen,  with  the  enterprise 
of  their  race,  had  spread  themselves  along  the  coasts  of 
the  Mediterranean,  voyaging  as  far  as  Cornwall,  if  not 
to  the  Baltic,  in  one  direction,  to  Sierra  Leone  in  the 
other,  and  planting  settlements  wherever  openings 
showed  themselves  for  extending  her  commerce.  She 
had  flourishing  factories  and  silver-mines  in  Spain,— 
was  in  possession  of  nearly  all  what  is  now  Andalusia 
and  Granada, — had  gained  possession  of  the  whole  of 


96 


LIVY. 


Sardinia  and  Corsica  and  the  Balearic  Isles,  was  spread¬ 
ing  her  colonies  along  the  coast  of  Sicily,  and  contem¬ 
plating  the  occupation  of  the  whole  island.  A  horde  of 
piratical  adventurers  called  Mamertines  (children  of 
Mamers,  or  Mars),  settled  in  Messana,  were  threatened 
with  expulsion  by  Hiero,  who  from  having  been  a  sol¬ 
dier  of  fortune  under  Pyrrhus  had  risen  to  be  king  of 
Syracuse.  They  appealed  for  aid  to  Rome :  the  choice 
for  them,  they  said,  lay  between  Rome  and  Carthage; 
they  represented  how  dangerous  it  would  be  for  the 
Romans  to  have  a  Carthaginian  fleet  stationed  within 
sight  of  Italy.  The  Romans  did  not  require  much  per¬ 
suasion;  and  meanwhile  Carthage  had  already  inter¬ 
vened,  had  arranged  a  peace  between  the  Mamertines 
and  Hiero,  and  occupied  the  harbor  of  Messana.  A  col¬ 
lision  was  inevitable:  and  although  Hiero  at  first  joined  . 
the  Carthaginians,  the  early  successes  of  the  Romans 
soon  led  him  to  change  his  policy,  and  he  became  and 
continued  the  steadfast  ally  of  Rome. 

The  two  nations  who  now  for  the  first  time  met  in 
arms  presented  some  strong  national  contrasts.  The 
Romans,  soldiers  from  habit,  as  yet  knew  little  of  the 
sea.  The  Carthaginians,  on  the  other  hand,  were  born 
and  bred  sailors,  but  military  service  on  land  suited 
neither  their  habits  nor  their  tastes.  They  preferred  en¬ 
gaging  for  this  service  mercenaries  from  Spain  and 
from  Africa.  It  was  not  till  after  six  years  of  hard 
training  that  their  great  general  Hamilcar  Barcas  could 
bring  into  the  field  any  infantry  that  could  hold  their 
ground  against  a  Roman  legion.  On  the  other  hand, 
the  Romans  had  to  take  a  Carthaginian  war-galley  as 
their  model  before  they  had  any  ships  afloat  that  could 
meet  those  of  their  enemy  with  any  hope  of  success. 

It  is  said  that  within  two  months  they  built  an$ 


THE  LOST  DECADE. 


97 


launched  a  hundred  ships  on  the  new  pattern.  Thus 
they  became  at  length  a  match  for  the  Carthaginians  by 
sea,  carried  the  war  even  into  Africa,  and  after  a  strug¬ 
gle  of  twenty-three  years,  by  the  great  naval  victory  off 
the  iEgates  Islands,  had  made  themselves  masters  of  all 
Sicily.  This  is  known  as  the  First  Punic  War.*  An 
insurrection  in  Sardinia,  breaking  out  while  Carthage 
was  occupied  in  suppressing  a  mutiny  of  her  mercenary 
troops  at  home,  gave  the  Romans  an  opportunity  of 
taking  that  island  under  their  “protection;”  and  Corsica 
soon  followed — “  one  of  the  most  detestable  acts  of  in¬ 
justice,”  remarks  Niebuhr,  “in  the  history  of  Rome.” 
It  was  not  probable  that  Carthage  should  tamely  submit 
to  be  deprived  under  such  circumstances  of  her  most 
valuable  provinces.  She  had  been  too  weak  to  resist  at 
the  time:  but  she  only  waited  the  hour  and  the  man, 
and  when  they  came,  began  the  Second  Punic  War. 

Our  annalist  is  now  treading  on  safer  ground,  and  has 
the  opportunity  of  following  more  trustworthy  authori¬ 
ties.  In  this  war  was  taken  prisoner  Cincius  Alimentus, 
a  Roman  senator,  who  afterwards  wrote  a  history  of 
Rome  (in  Greek),  and  whom  Livy  more  than  once  quotes 
with  approbation.  Cincius  even  made  some  personal 
acquaintance  with  the  great  Carthaginian  into  whose 
power  he  had  fallen.  Fabius  Pictor,  too,  now  becomes 
a  contemporary  authority;  for  he  also  served  in  these 
campaigns.  But  Livy  has  chiefly,  though  not  always, 
followed  the  later  history  of  Polybius,  who  was  born 
about  thirty  years  after  the  conclusion  of  the  war,  and 
therefore  might  have  had  access  to  the  best  sources  of 
information.  Polybius  is  generally  fair  and  impartial; 


*  The  Romans  called  the  Phoenicians  Pceni ;  hence  the  adjec¬ 
tive  “  Punic.” 


08 


LIVY. 


and  Livy,  who  had  the  whole  of  his  history  to  guide 
him,  though  five  books  of  it  only  have  reached  us,  is 
more  indebted  to  him  than  he  seems  willing  to  allow, — 
speaking  of  him  somewhat  grudgingly  as  “an  authority 
by  no  means  to  be  despised.” 

CHAPTER  VIII. 

THE  SECOND  PUNIC  WAR:  THRASYMENUS  AND  CANNA3. 
(books  xxi.-xxii.  b.c.  218-216.) 

“  The  war  maintained  against  the  Roman  people  by 
the  Carthaginians  under  Hannibal,  of  which  I  am 
about  to  write,  is  the  most  memorable,”  says  the  his¬ 
torian,  “  of  all  that  were  ever  waged.  ”  Modern  author¬ 
ities  have  confirmed  his  judgment,  so  far  at  least  as  all 
ancient  history  is  concerned.  “  It  was  no  mere  strug¬ 
gle,”  says  Michelet,  “  to  determine  the  lot  of  two  cities 
or  two  empires;  but  it  was  a  strife  on  which  depended 
the  fate  of  two  races  of  mankind,  whether  the  dominion 
of  the  world  should  belong  to  the  Indo-Germanic  or 
the  Semitic  family  of  nations.”  “ Never,”  says  Livy, 
“were  two  combatant  states  more  powerful  in  all  re¬ 
sources;  both  were  in  their  full  strength;  they  knew 
each  other’s  tactics  from  former  experience;  and  they 
were  so  evenly  matched,  that  the  side  which  was  finally 
victorious  was  at  onetime  in  the  more  imminent  peril.” 
And  he  adds  that,  strong  as  the  opposing  forces  were, 
their  mutual  hatred  was  even  stronger. 

The  future  hero  of  the  war  had  indeed  been  sworn 
from  his  boyhood  to  be  the  enemy  of  Rome.  His 
father,  Hamilcar  Barcas,  had  brought  up  his  three 
sons,  Hannibal,  Hasdrubal,  and  Mago,  to  be,  as  he 


THE  SECOND  PUNIC  WAR. 


99 


said,  “three  lion’s  whelps,”  to  glut  themselves  on  the 
blood  of  Rome.  After  he  had  been  killed  in  Spain, 
the  young  Hannibal  had  continued  to  serve  there 
under  his  brother-in-law  Hasdrubal,  who  had  succeeded 
to  the  command.  Hasdrubal  was  assassinated;  the 
voice  of  the  army,  and  of  the  Carthaginian  commons, 
was  loud  in  favor  of  Hannibal  as  his  successor;  and 
the  graver  leaders  of  the  opposite  party  in  vain  pro¬ 
tested  against  handing  on  the  command  to  another  of 
the  powerful  clan  of  Barcas,  who  seemed  to  threaten 
Carthage  with  a  military  despotism.  The  character  of 
the  young  commander,  and  his  first  reception  by  the 
troops  in  Spain,  is  one  of  the  most  characteristic  pas¬ 
sages  in  Livy’s  work. 

“The  veterans  thought  it  was  Hamilcar  restored  to  them  in 
living  person :  they  saw  the  same  decision  in  his  face,  the  same 
fire  in  his  eyes,  the  very  same  features  and  expression.  But  he 
so  behaved  himself,  that  in  a  short  time  the  memory  of  his  fath¬ 
er  became  one  of  his  least  claims  to  the  popular  favor.  Never 
was  a  nature  more  fitted  for  two  most  different  duties— to  com¬ 
mand  and  to  obey.  So  that  it  would  not  be  easy  to  decide 
whether  he  was  a  greater  favorite  with  the  general  or  with  the 
troops.  There  was  no  officer  whom  Hasdrubal  preferred  to  put 
in  command  when  anything  bold  and  energetic  had  to  be  done, 
and  none  in  whom  the  men  had  more  confidence,  or  under  whom 
they  would  dare  more.  He  had  the  greatest  boldness  in  en¬ 
countering  langer,  and  the  coolest  judgment  in  the  midst  of  it. 
No  toil  could  either  fatigue  him  bodily,  or  depress  his  spirits. 
Heat  and  cold  he  could  bear  alike:  his  rule  as  to  food  and  drink 
was  set  by  natural  appetite,  not  pleasure.  His  times  of  waking 
and  sleeping  did  not  depend  on  its  being  day  or  night;  such 
hours  as  remained  after  his  work  was  finished  he  gave  to  repose : 
and  even  that  was  not  courted  on  a  luxurious  couch,  or  by  en¬ 
joining  silence.  Many  have  seen  him,  wrapped  in  his  military 
cloak,  stretched  on  the  ground  amongst  the  pickets  and  senti¬ 
nels.  In  his  dress  there  was  no  difference  between  him  and 
other  young  men:  his  horse  and  his  arms  only  were  noticeable. 
He  was  by  far  the  best  soldier  in  the  army,  whether  on  foot  or 


100 


LIVY. 


horseback;  the  first  to  go  into  action,  and  the  last  to  retire. 
These  admirable  qualities  were  matched  by  as  remarkable  faults: 
an  inhuman  cruelty,  a  more  than  Punic  perfidy;  no  truth,  no 
everence,  no  fear  of  the  gods,  no  respect  for  an  oath,  no  scruple 
of  religion.”— (xxi.  4.) 

Such  was  the  young  general  (he  was  just  twenty-six 
years  old),  the  great  son  of  a  great  father,  who  was 
now  to  be  matched  against  consuls  and  dictators  of 
Rome,  and  after  baffling  and  defeating  them  for  a 
period  of  seventeen  years,  was  himself  finally  over¬ 
come  by  circumstances  rather  than  by  superiority  in 
arms.  The  quarrel  between  Rome  and  Carthage  began 
in  the  debatable  territory  in  Spain.  The  ostensible 
cause  was  the  siege  of  Saguntum  (now  Murviedro)  by 
Hannibal,  the  question  being  whether  that  town  did  or 
did  not  lie  within  the  line  of  demarcation  agreed  upon 
by  treaty  between  the  Romans  and  Carthaginians  in 
Spain.  Ambassadors  were  sent  from  Rome  to  warn 
Hannibal  to  hold  his  hand  from  “  allies  of  Rome;”  and 
upon  his  refusing  them  an  audience,  they  at  once  pro¬ 
ceeded,  in  accordance  with  their  instructions,  to  Car¬ 
thage.  Still  they  got  no  satisfactory  answer;  and  Han¬ 
nibal  meanwhile  pressed  on  the  siege  of  Saguntum  vig¬ 
orously.  In  spite  of  a  gallant  resistance  of  eight 
months,  during  which  he  was  himself  severely  wound¬ 
ed,  it  was  taken  by  storm,  and  every  man  in  it  put  to 
the  sword.  The  leading  citizens  had  preferred  a  volun¬ 
tary  death :  they  had  heaped  all  their  valuables  in  the 
market-place,  made  a  funeral  pile  of  them,  and  thrown 
themselves  upon  it. 

The  indignation  of  the  Romans  was  extreme,  not  un- 
mixed  with  remorse  for  having  delayed  their  own  inter¬ 
ference  too  long.  They  sent  a  second  embassy  to  Car¬ 
thage,  demanding  peremptorily  that  the  act  of  Hanni- 


THE  SECOND  PUNIC  WAR. 


101 


bal  should  either  be  avowed  or  disavowed.  The  dis¬ 
cussion  in  the  Carthaginian  senate  was  short  and  fierce. 
Their  chief  speaker  concluded  by  saying: 

“  ‘  Leave  off  talking  about  Saguntum  and  the  Ebro;  and  as  we 
know  what  you  have  long  been  nursing  in  your  hearts,  let  us 
have  it  out  at  last.’  Then  the  Roman  gathered  his  robe  in  a 
fold  in  front  of  him,  and  said,  ‘  Here  we  carry  for  you  peace  or 
war;  choose  which  you  will.’  At  these  words  they  shouted  with 
equal  fierceness  in  reply,  4  Give  us  which  you  please !  ’  And  when 
the  other  shook  out  the  fold,  and  said  he  gave  them  ‘war,’  all 
answered  that  they  accepted  it,  and  that  in  the  same  spirit  with 
which  they  accepted  it  they  would  carry  it  out.” 

The  Roman  envoys  crossed  into  Spain  at  once,  to 
strengthen  their  own  interests  there,  and  to  detach  any 
tribes  whom  they  could  from  the  Carthaginian  alliance. 
In  Spain  they  met  with  little  encouragement;  one  tribe 
bade  them  seek  for  new  allies  in  some  quarter  where 
their  base  desertion  of  the  Saguntines  in  their  need  was 
not  known.  They  then  passed  on  into  Gaul.  The  ob¬ 
ject  was  to  prevent,  if  possible,  the  advance  which 
they  already  anticipated  of  Hannibal  through  Gaul  into 
Italy.  But  the  Gauls  told  them  plainly  that  they  .saw 
no  reason  why  they  should  thus  force  the  Carthaginian 
to  turn  his  arms  against  themselves  in  order  to  save  the 
Romans. 

Hannibal  made  his  preparations  carefully  for  the 
great  expedition  which  he  contemplated.  He  threw 
strong  garrisons  into  Sicily,  and  appointed  his  brother 
Hasdrubal  to  command  in  Spain  during  his  absence. 
He  began  his  march  towards  the  Pyrenees  with  90,000 
foot  and  12,000  horse,  African  and  Spanish,  and  37 
elephants.  Before  he  crossed  the  Ebro,  he  had  a 
dream  or  vision. 

“  He  saw  in  his  sleep  a  warrior  of  godlike  aspect,  who  said  he 
bad  been  sent  from  Jove  to  be  the  guide  of  Hannibal  into  Italy; 


102 


LIVY. 


only  let  him  follow,  and  never  turn  his  eyes  away  from  him. 
At  first,  he  thought,  he  followed  the  figure  in  awe,  without 
glancing  round  him  or  behind  him;  then,  wondering  in  himself, 
with  the  curiosity  of  human  nature,  what  it  could  be  that  he 
was  thus  forbidden  to  look  back  at,  he  could  no  longer  refrain 
his  eyes;  when  he  saw  behind  him  a  serpent  of  enormous  size 
rolling  along  and  sweeping  down  trees  and  underwood,  and  fol¬ 
lowed  by  a  storm  and  the  crashing  of  thunder.  Then,  when  he 
asked  what  the  monster  was  or  what  it  portended,  he  heard  a 
voice  say  that  it  was  ‘  the  desolation  of  Italy— only  let  him  still 
press  forwards,  and  ask  no  questions,  but  suffer  the future  to  re¬ 
main  hidden  from  his  view.’  ” — (xxi.  22  ) 

He  had  taken  measures,  by  envoys  and  presents,  to 
secure  a  passage  for  his  troops  through  the  country  of 
the  Gauls,  and  had  made  inquiries  as  to  the  most  prac¬ 
ticable  passes  of  the  Alps.  He  reduced  such  tribes  as 
lay  on  that  side  the  Pyrenees  and  still  adhered  to  the 
Roman  alliance;  and  leaving  Hanno  with  a  strong  force 
to  occupy  the  district,  made  his  way  over  the  Pyrenees, 
and  effected  the  passage  of  the  Rhone  In  spite  of  some 
opposition  from  the  Gauls  on  the  opposite  bank. 
Fertile  in  resources,  he  collected  boats  from  all  quar¬ 
ters,  and  even  set  his  men  to  manufacture  rough  punts 
for  the  purpose;  while  the  elephants  are  said  to  have 
been  got  across  on  rafts,  upon  which  they  were  tempted 
to  trust  themselves  by  very  much  the  same  stratagem 
as  is  used  in  India  to  this  day, — by  covering  the  rafts 
with  earth,  and  driving  the  females  in  front.  The 
Romans  had  two  armies  in  the  field,  each  under  a  con¬ 
sul;  Publius  Scipio  was  to  command  in  Spain,  while 
his  colleague  Sempronius  was  sent  into  Sicily  with 
orders  to  make  a  descent  on  Africa  if  he  saw  oppor¬ 
tunity.  Scipio  reached  Marseilles  too  late  to  oppose 
Hannibal’s  passage  of  the  Rhone,  and  he  had  but  vague 
information  as  to  his  movements.  While  the  heavier 
portion  of  the  Carthaginian  army  was  crossing  the 


TEE  SEC  ONE  PUNIC  WAR. 


103 


river,  an  indecisive  skirmish  took  place  between  some 
of  their  Numidian  irregular  horse  and  a  troop  of  Roman 
cavalry.  Hannibal  was  hesitating  whether  to  engage 
the  consul’s  army,  which  he  learnt  was  not  far  oft,  or 
continue  his  march  for  Italy,  when  the  arrival  of  some 
chiefs  of  the  Boii,  a  tribe  of  Cisalpine  Gauls,  who 
offered  to  be  his  guides  and  escort  over  the  Alps,  de¬ 
cided  him  not  to  waste  his  forces  in  a  battle  on  that 
side,  but  to  make  by  rapid  marches  for  the  foot  of  the 
mountains.  He  harangued  his  troops — if  not  in  the 
words  which  the  Roman  annalist  gives  us,  yet,  we  may 
well  conceive,  in  the  like  strain.  The  Alps,  he  told 
them,  were  the  portals  of  Rome.  Rome  had  been 
taken  once  already  by  the  Gauls — those  very  Gauls 
whom  they  had  so  easily  beaten  ;  would  they  allow 
them  to  be  better  men  than  themselves? 

He  was  misled,  early  in  the  march,  by  the  treachery 
of  guides  volunteered  to  him  by  one  of  the  mountain- 
tribes,  and  for  some  time  his  army  was  in  imminent 
danger.  They  were  surrounded  on  all  sides  in  a  nar¬ 
row  defile,  attacked  in  front  and  rear,  and  masses  of 
rock  were  hurled  down  upon  them  by  the  hostile  na¬ 
tives;  but  Hannibal  was  able  to  maintain  the  steadiness  of 
his  infantry,  and  they  forced  their  way  through.  Nine 
days  after  they  left  the  plains,  Hannibal  looked  down 
from  the  central  ridge  of  the  Alps  on  the  plains  of 
Italy.  But  his  troops  were  fatigued,  half  frozen,  and 
disheartened;  a  heavy  fall  of  snow  during  their  two 
days’  rest  increased  their  misery;  and  they  found  the 
descent  still  more  difficult.  In  one  place,  a  large  por¬ 
tion  of  the  mountain-road  had  been  broken  away  (prob¬ 
ably  by  an  avalanche),  and  they  had  to  stop  and  re¬ 
pair  it;  and  here  we  have  the  well-known  story  of  the 
cutting  through  the  rocks,  after  heating  them  with  large 


304 


LIVY. 


fires  and  then  pouring  on  vinegar.  The  beasts,  and 
especially  the  elephants,  were  half  starved  before  they 
reached  the  nearest  pasture-ground.  When  he  mus¬ 
tered  his  troops  he  found  that  he  had  scarcely  left  him 
half  the  number  with  which  he  had  crossed  the  Ebro. 

The  story  of  this  passage  of  the  Alps,  as  the  annal¬ 
ist  tells  it,  is  picturesque  in  the  highest  degree*  but  the 
geography  is  of  the  vaguest,  and  it  is  impossible  not  to 
suspect  that  many  of  the  details  of  the  march  are  little 
better  than  a  clever  fancy  picture.  The  writer  confesses 
that  he  does  not  know  for  certain  by  which  pass  they 
crossed — whether  it  was  by  what  he  calls  the  “  Pen¬ 
nine”  or  the  pass  of  “Cremo.”  Wherever  these  were, 
it  is  most  probable  that  the  passage  was  made  by  way  of 
the  Little  St.  Bernard,  though  some  arguments  have 
been  advanced  in  favor  of  Mont  Cenis. 

Scipio,  meanwhile,  having  failed  to  check  the  advance 
of  Hannibal  through  Gaul,  had  re-embarked  his  troops 
for  Italy,  and  prepared  to  meet  his  enemy  on  his  de¬ 
scent  into  the  plains  of  Piedmont.  Putting  himself  at 
the  head  of  the  army  which  he  found  there  under  the 
command  of  the  prastors,  he  crossed  the  Po  at  Placentia, 
and  threw  himself  in  Hannibal’s  way,  who  was  quite  as 
anxious  to  meet  him.  Both  generals,  says  the  annalist, 
had  the  highest  opinion  of  each  other’s  ability.  He 
gives  us  at  some  length  the  speeches  which  he  supposes 
each  might  have  addressed  to  their  troops — taking  this 
mode,  as  he  so  often  does,  of  putting  his  readers  in  pos¬ 
session  of  the  feelings  with  which  each  of  the  contend¬ 
ing  parties  began  the  campaign.  The  Roman  pointed 
out  to  his  men  that  the  enemy  they  were  going  to  fight 
they  had  already  beaten;  Carthage  had  surely  not  bred 
a  new  race  of  men  since  the  last  war;  moreover,  this 
particular  army  was  already  travel-worn  and  half 


THE  SECOND  PUNIC  WAR. 


105 


furnished  by  their  journey  over  the  Alps.  They  must 
remember,  too,  that  they  were  fighting  for  Rome;  there 
was  no  second  mountain-barrier  like  the  Alps  to  pro¬ 
tect  the  city — its  sole  defence  and  safety  lay  in  their 
hands. 

The  Carthaginian  used  a  characteristic  means  of  rous¬ 
ing  the  courage  of  his  men.  He  offered  the  chance  of 
liberty  and  life  to  any  of  their  lately  made  Gaulish 
prisoners  who  would  act  the  part  of  gladiator,  and  en¬ 
gage  in  personal  combat  in  sight  of  his  army;  trusting 
that  the  fierce  excitement  of  the  spectacle  would  make 
them  eager  to  fight  for  themselves.  Then  he  made  his 
harangue — reminding  them  of  the  perfidy  and  restless 
ambition  of  Rome,  which  left  them  no  choice  but  war 
in  self-defence;  and  drawing  a  confident  comparison  be¬ 
tween  his  own  tried  experience  in  war,  and  the  mutual 
good  understanding  between  himself  and  his  troops,  as 
opposed  to  this  “six  months’  general  ”  whom  Rome  had 
sent  out,  and  the  raw  levies  to  whom  he  was  almost  a 
stranger. 

Their  first  encounter  was  a  cavalry  action  on  the 
banks  of  the  river  Ticino,  in  which  the  Romans  were 
worsted.  The  consul  was  wounded,  and  owed  his  life 
to  the  gallantry,  some  said,  of  a  slave;  but  Livy,  al¬ 
ways  leaning  to  the  poetical  side,  prefers  the  story 
which  ascribed  the  rescue  to  his  son,  afterwards  to  be 
known  as  Scipio  “  Africanus.”  The  Roman  force  had 
to  recross  the  Po  at  night,  break  up  their  bridge, — so 
hastily  that  they  left  six  hundred  prisoners  in  the 
enemy’s  hands, — and  take  refuge  under  the  walls  of 
Placentia.  Hannibal  crossed  the  river  by  a  bridge  of 
boats,  followed  up  his  enemy,  and  offered  them  battle 
where  they  lay.  But  the  consul  was  still  disabled  by 
his  late  wound,  and  had  no  confidence  in  his  troops. 


106 


LIVY. 


A  large  body  of  auxiliary  Gauls  had  already  broken 
out  of  camp,  murdering  the  sentries,  and  gone  over  to 
Hannibal.  Scipio  again  moved  his  quarters  under 
cover  of  night,  and  fell  back  behind  the  little  river 
Treba.  There  he  was  joined  by  the  other  consul, 
Sempronius,  who  had  been  summoned  in  haste  from 
Sicily,  had  thrown  his  army  across  the  Straits  of  Mes¬ 
sina,  and  marched  in  forty  days  through  the  whole 
length  of  Italy.  His  colleague  being  disabled,  Sem- 
pronius  had  virtually  the  sole  command;  and  he  was 
eager  to  match  himself  with  this  young  Carthaginian 
general  before  his  own  year  of  office  should  expire. 
Some  inconsiderable  successes  in  cavalry  skirmishes 
encouraged  him,  spite  of  Scipio’s  warnings,  to  risk  a 
general  engagement.  He  had  to  cross  the  river  to  get 
at  his  enemy;  and,  in  defiance  of  all  military  prudence, 
took  his  men  into  action  wet,  chilled  with  the  cold, 
and  without  their  morning  meal.  Yet,  though  the 
cavalry  on  the  wings  was  soon  driven  in  by  the  enemy, 
and  thrown  into  confusion  by  his  elephants,  the  ad¬ 
mirable  steadiness  of  the  Roman  legionaries  might  have 
saved  the  day,  had  not  the  Carthaginian  made  use  of 
stratagem.  A  strong  force  of  cavalry,  planted  judi¬ 
ciously  in  ambuscade,  suddenly  took  them  in  the  rear. 
The  battle  was  now  hopelessly  lost;  yet  a  large  body 
cut  their  way  through  the  enemy,  and  got  to  Placentia, 
where  at  nightfall  they  were  joined  by  Scipio  with 
such  remains  of  the  broken  army  as  had  found  their 
way  into  camp.  The  Roman  forces  at  once  retreated 
— Sempronius  into  Etruria.  Hannibal,  after  an  at¬ 
tempt  to  cross  the  Apennines  in  terrible  weather,  in 
which  his  troops  suffered  severely,  wintered  in  Cisal¬ 
pine  Gaul — so  far  master  of  the  country. 

In  accordance  with  the  regular  military  policy  of 


THE  SECOND  PUNIC  WAR 


107 


Rome,  which  on  this  point  seems  to  us  so  inconvenient, 
the  command  for  the  next  year  passed  into  the  hands  of 
new  consuls.  Rome  had  been  thrown  into  consternation 
by  the  late  disaster,  and  great  exertions  were  made  to 
raise  new  levies  for  the  spring.  Hannibal  had  now 
crossed  the  Appennines,  and  made  his  way  through  the 
marshes  below  Florence,  at  the  expense  of  considerable 
suffering  to  his  men  and  himself.  He  rode,  we  are  told, 
the  only  elephant  that  had  survived  the  disasters  of  the 
Alps  and  the  Apennines,  and  lost  an  eye  from  the  inflam¬ 
mation  caused  by  the  exposure  to  weather  which  must 
have  chilled  his  southern  blood.  Still  he  pressed  on  into 
Etruria,  burning  and  plundering  as  he  went. 

One  of  the  new  consuls  was  Flaminius,  who  in  a  pre¬ 
vious  year  of  office  had  reduced  the  Cisalpine  Gauls.  He 
was  not  more  successful  than  his  predecessors.  He 
allowed  himself  to  be  attacked  by  Hannibal  in  a  defile 
near  the  lake  Thrasymenus,*  and  suffered  an  over¬ 
whelming  defeat.  A  thick  mist,  which  concealed  the 
enemy  during  their  first  attack,  added  to  the  confusion 
of  the  Romans.  Their  advance  cut  their  way  through, 
only  to  surrender  next  day  to  Maharbal’s  cavalry.  The 
consul  himself  fell;  and  15,000  of  his  men  were  either 
killed  in  the  fight,  or  cut  to  pieces  afterwards  by  the 
enemy’s  horse. 

Livy  appears  to  have  taken  his  account  of  the  battle 
and  its  results  mainly  from  the  history  of  Fabius  Pictor, 
who  himself  served  in  the  war — possibly  was  engaged 
cn  this  occasion.  But  the  story  of  the  reception  of  the 
terrible  news  at  Rome  is  a  far  more  finished  picture 


*  Near  the  modern  village  of  Passignano.  The  little  stream 
jailed  “  Sanguinetto,”  which  falls  into  the  lake,  bears  its  record 
>f  the  bloodshed, 


108 


LIVY. 


than  any  likely  to  have  been  found  in  the  earlier  his¬ 
torian. 

“When  the  first  tidings  of  this  disaster  reached  Rome,  great 
was  the  panic  and  confusion,  and  there  was  a  general  rush  of  the 
people  into  the  Forum.  Wives  and  mothers  wandered  about  the 
streets,  asking  all  they  met  what  this  sudden  calamity  was  that 
men  reported,  and  what  had  happened  to  the  army.  And  when 
the  crowd,  like  a  great  public  meeting,  made  its  way  to  the  elec¬ 
tion  courts  and  the  senate-house,  and  appealed  to  the  magistrates 
for  information,  at  length,  a  little  before  sunset,  Marcus  Pompo- 
nius  the  praetor  announced — ‘  We  have  been  beaten  in  a  great 
battle.’  And  though  no  further  particulars  could  be  learnt  from 
him,  yet  men  caught  vague  rumors  one  from  the  other,  and  went 
home  saying  ‘  that  the  consul  with  the  greater  part  of  his  force 
were  cut  to  pieces;  that  the  few  who  survived  had  either  been 
made  to  pass  under  the  yoke,  or  were  scattered  in  flight  through¬ 
out  Etruria.’  Various  as  the  fate  of  the  beaten  army  were  the 
different  forms  of  anxiety  felt  by  those  who  had  relatives  serving 
under  the  consul:  none  knowing  what  their  fate  had  been,  and 
all  uncertain  what  they  had  to  hope  or  what  to  fear.  Next  day, 
and  for  some  days  afterwards,  crowds  thronged  the  gates,  women 
in  almost  as  great  numbers  as  men,*  waiting  for  some  member 
of  their  family,  or  for  news  of  him.  They  threw  themselves  upon 
all  whom  they  met,  with  anxious  inquiries,  and  could  not  be 
shaken  off  (especially  from  any  whom  they  knew)  until  they  had 
asked  every  particular  from  first  to  last.  Then  you  might  have 
marked  the  different  countenances,  as  they  parted  from  their  in¬ 
formants,  according  as  each  had  heard  cheering  or  mournful 
news;  while,  on  their  way  home,  friends  crowded  round  them  to 
congx-atulate  or  condole.  The  women  showed  their  joy  or  grief 
most  conspicuously.  One  mother  who  met  her  son  suddenly  at 
the  gate  returning  safe,  is  said  to  have  expired  on  beholding  him: 
another,  who  had  heard  a  false  report  of  her  son’s  death,  and 
was  sitting  weeping  in  her  house,  saw  him  returning,  and  died  of 
over- joy.  The  praetors  kept  the  senate  sitting  for  several  days 
from  sunrise  to  sunset,  consulting  what  commanders  and  what 
forces  could  be  found,  to  resist  the  victorious  Carthagenians.” — 
(xxii.  7.) 


*  Nothing  but  such  a  crisis  could  excuse  this  breach  of  Roman 
propriety. 


THE  SECOND  PUNIC  WAR. 


109 


But  the  rulers  of  the  city  showed  no  weakness.  Fabius 
Maximus  was  named  Dictator  in  the  emergency,  and 
Mmucius  Rufus  his  “Master  of  the  Horse.” 

Though  Hannibal  was  continuing  his  victorious  march 
through  Picenum  and  Apulia,  Fabius,  though  superior 
in  numbers,  showed  no  disposition  to  engage  him  in  the 
field.  He  was  content  to  follow  and  watch  his  move¬ 
ments,  to  keep  him  from  the  important  towns,  and, 
above  all,  from  a  march  on  Rome.  Once,  when  he 
thought  he  had  cut  oil  his  communications,  the  Cartha 
ginian  escaped  him  by  stratagem;  two  thousand  oxen 
were  driven  into  the  bills  at  night,  with  lighted  pine- 
torches  tied  to  their  horns,  to  give  the  appearance  of  a 
moving  army,  while  Hannibal  drew  off  his  troops  in  an¬ 
other  direction.  But  Hannibal  felt  that  in  the  Roman 
Dictator  he  had  to  deal  with  an  able  and  wary  opponent. 
The  Master  of  the  Horse,  however,  was  a  man  of  differ 
ent  temper,  and  chafed  openly  at  the  tactics  of  his  chief, 
aimost  driving  the  troops  into  mutiny.  During  the 
absence  of  Fabius  at  Rome  on  public  business,  he  gained 
some  slight  successes;  and  this  encouraged  the  party  at 
home,  who  were  already  discontented  at  their  general’s 
inaction,  to  demand  the  passing  of  a  bill  to  put  the 
authority  of  the  Master  of  the  Horse  on  a  level  with  that 
of  the  Dictator .  The  result  was  that,  having  agreed  to 
divide  the  troops  between  them,  Minucius  was  tempted 
by  Hannibal  into  an  engagement,  and  would  have  been 
utterly  routed  but  for  the  support  of  Fabius  and  his 
division.  With  that  generous  public  spirit  which  so 
often  redeemed  the  gravest  faults  in  Roman  officers, 
Mmucius  acknowledged  his  mistake,  and  put  himself 
for  the  future  under  the  orders  of  the  Dictator  as  before. 
Fabius  suddenly  rose  high  in  popular  estimation  both  in 
the  army  and  at  Rome;  and  Hannibal,  says  Livy,  “be 


110 


LIVY. 


t 

gan  at  last  to  feel  that  he  was  fighting  against  Romans, 
and  on  Italian  soil.” 

But  the  tenure  of  the  Dictator’s  office,  always  brief 
and  exceptional,  ceased  with  the  end  of  the  year.  The 
consuls  who  succeeded,  however,  carried  on  the  cam¬ 
paign  very  much  in  the  fashion  which  they  had  learnt 
from  Fabius.  Then  came  another  change;  and  one  of 
the  new  consuls,  Terrentius  Yarro — “a  butcher’s  son,” 
as  his  aristocratic  opponents  said,  but  at  any  rate  a  man 
of  the  people,  and  elected  by  plebeian  votes — had  all  the 
impatience  and  more  than  the  imprudence  of  the  late 
Master  of  the  Horse.  His  colleague,  Paulus  HSmilius, 
who  had  been  earnestly  counselled  by  Fabius,  was  more 
cautious.  There  was  again  in  the  Roman  camp  the  fatal 
evil  of  a  divided  authority,  each  consul  commander-in¬ 
chief  on  alternate  days.  The  condition  of  the  Cartha¬ 
ginian  army  was  now  critical  in  the  extreme,  for  pro¬ 
visions  were  fast  failing  them ;  the  Roman  allies  in  Italy 
were  growing  impatient  at  seeing  their  lands  ravaged 
with  impunity  by  the  invaders;  so  that  both  sides  were 
eager  for  action.  The  rashness  of  Yarro  precipitated 
the  event  on  unfavorable  ground;  and  the  result  was  the 
almost  total  destruction  of  the  Roman  army  on  the  dis¬ 
astrous  field  of  Cannae.  For  a  clear  and  distinct  account 
of  the  battle,  the  student  of  military  history  must  read 
Polybius,  and  not  Livy,  whose  description,  though 
highly  picturesque,  is  sadly  confused.  As  usual,  the 
Roman  cavalry  was  no  match  for  that  of  the  enemy; 
and  Hasdrubal,  with  his  Gallic  and  Spanish  horse,  after 
driving  in  those  opposed  to  them,  charged  the  Roman 
infantry  in  the  rear.  iEmilius  had  been  wounded  early 
in  the  day,  and  could  no  longer  sit  his  horse;  his  officers 
and  men  dismounted  and  fought  desperately  round  him, 
as  the  Scottish  knights  did  round  King  James  at  Flod- 


THE  SECOND  PUNIC  WAP. 


Ill 


den,  and  with  the  same  result.  “  They  died  where  they 
stood.”  The  consul  was  last  seen  sitting  down  covered 
with  blood ;  an  officer  begged  him  to  take  his  horse  and 
save  himself.  He  refused.  “  Tell  them  at  Rome,”  said 
he,  “to  look  to  their  watch  and  ward:  and  tell  Fabius 
1  remember  his  counsel  dying,  as  I  did  while  I  lived.” 
Varro,  with  a  few  horsemen,  escaped  from  the  field  to 
Yenusia.  Forty  thousand  foot  and  2,700  cavalry  were 
said  to  have  been  left  dead  on  the  field  of  battle,  include 
mg  nearly  all  the  officers  of  highest  rank,  the  gallant 
Minucius  among  the  number;  3,000  infantry  and  300 
horse  were  made  prisoners.  When  Mago  bore  the  news 
of  his  brother’s  great  victory  to  Carthage,  he  poured  out 
before  the  council  there  a  bushel  (some  said  three)  of 
gold  rings,  each  one  taken  from  the  finger  of  a  Roman 
knight  who  had  died  at  Cannae  *  Those  who  escaped 
to  their  own  camp  surrendered  next  day  to  Hannibal, 
except  a  small  body  who  fought  their  way  out  and 
reached  Canusium. 

“  Such,”  says  Livy,  “was  the  fight  at  Cannae,  not  less 
memorable  than  the  disaster  at  the  Allia;  if  less  grave  in 
its  consequences,  inasmuch  as  the  enemy  did  not  follow 
up  his  success,  yet  more  fatal  in  the  utter  destruction  of 
the  army.  For  the  flight  at  the  Allia,  though  it  lost  the 
city,  saved  the  army  ”  Hannibal  missed  the  tide  of  oppor¬ 
tunity.  In  vain  did  Maharbal — “  the  best  cavalry  officer 
of  the  finest  cavalry  service  in  the  world  ”f — propose  to 
ride  forward  at  once,  and  urge  his  chief  to  follow  him 
with  the  main  body,  straight  for  Rome,  promising  him 


*  Tim  reader  will  be  reminded  of  the  four  thousand  gilt  spurs 
said  to  have  been  gathered  from  the  bodies  of  the  French  knights 
slain  by  the  Flemings  on  the  field  of  Courtrai,  a.d.  1302— hence 
known  as  the  Battle  of  the  Spurs.  ” 
t  Arnold.  * 


112 


LIVY. 


that  “in  five  days  he  should  sup  in  the  Capitol.”  Han¬ 
nibal  preferred  to  wait;  and  the  Roman  annalist  admits 
that,  in  his  opinion,  this  delay  was  the  salvation  of  the 
city.  As  to  the  panic  and  distress  there,  he  despairs  of 
giving  his  readers  any  adequate  idea  of  it.  “I  fail 
under  the  burden  of  the  task,  and  will  not  attempt  to 
narrate  it,  since  any  description  would  only  make  it  ap¬ 
pear  less  than  the  reality.”  Two  significant  facts  he 
mentions,  which  show  the  all  but  despairing  efforts 
made  Dy  the  authorities.  Eight  thousand  slaves  were 
armed  and  enrolled,  and  six  thousand  released  criminals; 
and  recourse  was  had  to  the  horrible  expedient  of  human 
sacrifices, — to  propitiate,  if  it  might  be,  the  unknown 
deities  who  fought  against  Rome.  Two  Gauls  and  two 
Greek  prisoners — male  and  female — were  buried  alive; 
‘  ‘  a  horrible  rite,  by  no  means  in  accordance  with  Roman 
usage.” 


CHAPTER  IX. 

SECOND  PUNIC  WAR:  CANN^  TO  ZAMA.  - 

( 

(books  xxii. -xxx.  b.c.  216-202.) 

Once  more  the  spirit  of  Rome  rose  superior  to  her 
misfortunes.  News  came  in  of  the  revolt  of  allies,  of 
descents  made  by  the  Carthaginians  on  the  coast  of 
Sicily;  yet  “no  word  was  spoken  of  peace;”  and  when 
Yarro,  whose  rashness  had  caused  the  disaster,  brought 
the  shattered  remains  of  his  army  to  the  gates  of  Rome, 
he  received  the  public  thanks  of  the  senate, — “because 
he  had  not  despaired  of  the  commonwealth.”  In  the 
general  demoralization  which  followed  the  defeat,  some 
of  the  younger  officers  had  formed  the  idea  of  giving 
up  the  cause  of  Italy  as  lost,  and  seeking  refuge  and 


THE  SECOND  PUNIC  WAR. 


113 


service  under  Hiero  or  some  other  friendly  potentate; 
but  Varro  had  scorned  such  counsel,  and  young  Scipio 
had  burst  in  with  his  sword  drawn  upon  a  party  who 
were  met  to  discuss  it,  and  threatened  to  cut  down  the 
first  man  who  refused  then  and  there  to  swear  fidelity 
Jo  the  Republic. 

Very  different,  and  as  it  might  seem  to  us  moderns 
very  harsh,  was  the  view  taken  at  Rome  of  the  con¬ 
duct  of  those  troops  who  had  allowed  themselves  to 
be  made  prisoners  at  Cannae.  By  Hannibal’s  permis¬ 
sion,  they  had  sent  delegates  to  Rome  to  treat  for  their 
ransom;  but  the  senate,  unmoved  by  the  piteous  en¬ 
treaties  of  their  relatives,  sternly  decided  that  the  services 
of  men  who  had  preferred  life  to  honor  were  not  worth 
the  purchase.  Even  those  troops  who  had  escaped  by 
flight  were  sentenced,  by  way  of  punishment,  to  serve 
in  Sicily  until  the  war  should  be  concluded.  Five  years 
afterwards,  when-  the  authorities  in  their  emergency 
were  arming  even  slaves  to  serve  in  the  legions,  these 
men  prayed  leave  to  wipe  out  their  disgrace  in  any 
hardest  service  that  could  be  found  in  their  native 
country;  and  the  senate  coldly  rejected  their  prayer. 

Hannibal  moved  into  Samnium,  and  thence  into  the 
plains  of  Campania,  receiving  the  submission  of  several 
towns,  the  most  Important  of  which  was  the  rich  town 
of  Capua.  This  loss  was  felt  by  the  Romans  as  only 
second  to  that  of  Rome  itself.  But  the  Carthaginian 
commander,  whose  strongest  arm  was  his  cavalry,  did 
not  attempt  any  great  operations,  and  the  winter  spent 
by  his  army  amidst  the  luxury  of  Capua  "is  said  to  have 
demoralized  it  more 'than  all  the  sufferings  of  the  Alps 
or  the  campaign.  Marcellus,  now  in  command  in  that 
district,  did  little  more  than  watch  the  enemy’s  move¬ 
ments. 


114 


LIVY. 


In  Gaul  the  Romans  had  been  more  unfortunate':  a 
consul,  Posthmuius,  was  attacked  in  making  his  way 
through  a  forest  (ForSt  de  Lago),  and  cut  to  pieces  with 
great  part  of  his  army;  and  their  progress  there  was 
checked  for  the  present.  The  Roman  fleet  had  enough 
to  do  to  watch  the  coasts  of  Italy,  and  to  form  a  coali¬ 
tion  of  the  iEtolians  and  other  tribes  on  the  Macedonian 
frontier  against  King  Philip,  with  whom  Hannibal  had 
just  concluded  an  alliance. 

But  in  other  quarters  the  tide  was  already  turning 
for  the  Romans.  In  Sardinia,  a  great  battle  had  been 
won  by  Manlius,  who  was  in  command  there  as  praetor, 
against  the  combined  forces  of  the  Sardinians  and  Car¬ 
thaginians,  the  latter  having  three  of  their  generals 
taken  prisoners.  In  Spain,  a  year  before,  the  brothers 
Publius  and  Cnaeus  Scipio  had  driventhe  great  Cartha¬ 
ginians  over  the  Ebro,  and  when  they  heard  that  Has- 
drubal  was  marching-strong  reinforcements  through  the 
country  to  the  aid  of  his  brother  Hannibal  in  Italy,  they 
had  united  their  forces,  met  him  on  the  Ebro,  and  totally 
defeated  him;  thus  materially  crippling  the  great  Car- 
thaginan’s  operations  against  Rome.  They  now  again 
gained  a  decisive  victory,  inflicting  on  the  Carthaginians 
a  loss  of  13,000  killed,  and  making  a  considerable  num¬ 
ber  of  prisoners,  besides  what  the  Roman  annalist 
evidently  considers  an  important  capture  of  “  nine  ele¬ 
phants.’'  This  success  was  at  once  followed  by  the  defec¬ 
tion  of  nearly  all  the  Spanish  tribes  from  the  Carthagin¬ 
ian  alliance;  and  both  Sardinia  and  Spain  were  for  the 
present  secured  to  the  Romans. 

The  next  year  (b.c.  214)  saw  the  joint  consulship  of 
Quintas  Fabius  and  Marcus  Marcellus,  “  the  Shield  and 
Sword  of  Rome.”  The  people  were  on  the  point  of  elect¬ 
ing  two  other  candidates,  when  Fabius,  who  as  the  out- 


THE  SECOND  PUNIC  WAB. 


115 


going  consul  was  returning  officer,  bade  them  reconsider 
their  vote — “  they  had  to  elect  a  match  for  Hannibal.” 
Nothing  perhaps  shows  the  true  greatness  of  Fabius 
more  than  his  thus  boldly  risking  the  charge  of  forcing 
himself  upon  the  people;  for  there  is  no  doubt  that  he 
had  his  own  election  in  view,  and  there  was  no  prece¬ 
dent  for  thus  holding  a  consulship  two  years  in  succes¬ 
sion. 

Extraordinary  exertions  had  been  made  to  raise  both 
men  and  money  for  the  ensuing  campaign;  and  two 
consular  armies  of  unusual  strength,  under  able  com¬ 
manders,  now  pressed  Hannibal  close  in  Campania.  He 
sailed  in  au  attempt  on  Tarentum;  his  lieutenant  Hanno 
was  defeated  by  Gracchus  at  Beneventum;  Samnium 
was  ravaged  by  Fabius,  in  punishment  of  its  revolt  from 
Rome;  and  vigorous  preparations  were  made  for  the 
siege  of  Capua. 

Marcellus,  however,  was  called  off  before  the  end  of 
t  lie  year  to  the  scene  of  his  future  glory  in  Sicily. 
King  Hiero  of  Syracuse — for  forty-seven  years  the 
steady  ally  of  Rome — was  dead,  and  had  left  the  govern¬ 
ment  to  his  grandson,  a  mere  boy,  caring  only  for  his 
pleasures.  His  two  uncles,  his  guardians  and  ministers, 
were  inclined  to  the  Carthaginian  interest;  and  Hanni¬ 
bal  had  amongst  other  agents  at  his  court  a  man  of 
enterprise  and  ability  in  the  person  of  Hippocrates. 
The  young  prince  was  assured  that  the  Roman  power  was 
irretrievably  broken;  and,  tempted  by  the  offer  Of  being 
made  king  of  all  Sicily,  in  spite  of  the  advice  of  some 
older  and  wiser  counsellors,  he  made  an  alliance  with 
Carthage.  He  was  assassinated  very  soon  afterwards  on 
an  expedition  against  Leontini;  and  the  cry  was  raised 
m  Syracuse  for  “a  free  Republic,”  and  a  re-alliance 
with  Rome.  Andranodorus,  one  of  the  young  king’s 


116 


LIVY. 


uncles,  seized  and  held  the  citadel  in  the  interests  of  the 
royalist  party;  but  he  and  his  friends  surrendered  it  to 
the  republicans  when  they  found  that  the  popular  feel¬ 
ing  was  too  strong.  Accusations  of  plotting  against 
the  liberties  of  Syracuse,  and  of  seeking  to  re-establish 
the  “  tyranny,”  were  soon  brought  against  him;  and  the 
result  was  an  outbreak  of  popular  fury,  and  an  indis¬ 
criminate  massacre  of  the  whole  party,  and  of  all  the 
descendants  of  Hiero.  The  Romans,  as  soon  as  they 
learnt  the  state  of  affairs,  sent  their  fleet  at  once  to 
Syracuse  to  support  their  own  interests  against  those  of 
Carthage;  and  this  formidable  demonstration  encour¬ 
aged  their  adherents  in  the  city  to  renew  the  old  alliance 
with  Rome. 

But  Hippocrates,  the  zealous  and  energetic  agent  of 
Hannibal  and  Carthage,  was  by  no  means  content  with 
such  an  arrangement;  and  he  found  a  centre  of  opera¬ 
tions  in  the  Sicilian  town  of  Leontini,  which  was  not 
inclined  to  submit  itself  either  to  Syracuse  or  to  Rome. 
Marcellus  now  arrived  to  take  the  command  in  Sicily 
in  person.  He  took  Leontini  by  storm;  and  finding 
there  a  large  body  of  deserters  from  the  Roman  fleet 
and  army,  he  had  two  thousand  of  them  first  scourged 
and  then  beheaded.  This  terrible  vengeance  struck 
the  Syracusan  soldiers  with  a  not  unreasonable  horror 
of  Roman  cruelty;  Hippocrates  and  his  brother,  who 
had  escaped  from  the  slaughter  at  Leontini,  were 
acknowledged  as  leaders  by  the  arm3r,  and  a  counter¬ 
revolution  in  favor  of  Carthage  took  place  in  the  city 
of  Syracuse,  and  the  gates  were  closed  against  the 
Romans. 

Marcellus  at  once  invested  the  place  by  sea  and 
land.  The  siege  has  an  especial  interest  as  the  first 
instance  on  record  of  a  scientific  defence.  A  studious 


THE  SECOND  PUNIC  WAR. 


117 


recluse  of  seventy-four,  a  mathematician  and  astron¬ 
omer,  for  a  long  time  baffled  tlie  unscientific  efforts 
of  the  whole  Roman  force.  This  was  Archimedes, 
who  for  many  years  had  employed  his  skill  in  the  ser¬ 
vice  of  King  Hiero.  It  would  appear  that  he  first  in¬ 
troduced  the  plan  of  looplioling  the  walls  at  different 
heights;  his  catapults  and  similar  machines — the  artil¬ 
lery  of  those  times — were  of  all  varieties  of  range  and 
calibre;  and  there  was  one  tremendous  engine,  like  an 
enormous  crane  projected  from  the  walls,  and  heavily 
weighted  at  the  nearer  end,  while  the  other  was  fur¬ 
nished  with  a  huge  grapplingclaw;  this,  when  suddenly 
depressed,  would  catch  hold  of  one  of  the  enemy’s  ships 
(which  were  brought  up  to  attack  the  sea-wall),  lift  it 
bodily  out  of  the  water,  and  then  let  it  drop  suddenly 
back  so  as  to  sink  it  with  its  whole  crew.  The  defence 
was  so  successful,  and  the  natural  position  of  the  city 
so  strong  that  the  siege  was  speedily  reduced  to  a  close 
blockade.  It  was  not  until  this  had  lasted  a  year  that 
Marcellus  at  last  gained  possession  of  the  city  by  a  sur¬ 
prise.  A  weak  place  in  the  fortifications  had  been  dis¬ 
covered  in  the  quarter  called  Epipolse;  and  while  the 
citizens  were  engaged  in  deep  carousals  at  the  festival 
of  Diana  two  picked  cohorts  scaled  the  walls  at  night¬ 
fall,  and  without  much  difficulty  made  themselves 
masters  both  of  that  quarter  and  of  the  strong-work 
called  Hexapylon.  What  remained  was  an  easy  con¬ 
quest. 

“  When  Marcellus  entered  the  fortifications,  and  from  the  high 
ground  looked  down,  and  saw  lying  at  his  feet  the  city,  well- 
nigh  the  fairest  in  these  times,  he  is  said  to  have  shed  tears, 
partly  of  joy  at  the  great  deed  he  had  accomplished,  partly  of 
regret  for  the  ancient  glories  of  the  place.  The  sinking  of  the 
Athenian  fleet  there,  the  destruction  of  two  great  armies  and 


118 


LIVY. 


two  renowned  commanders,*  came  into  his  mind;  the  many 
wars  waged  against  Carthage  with  varied  success;  its  many 
powerful  despots  and  kings — Hiero  especially,  not  only  as  the 
most  recent  of  its  rulers,  but  memorable  above  and  beyond  all 
that  merit  and  fortune  had  given  him,  for  his  good  services  to 
the  Roman  people.  When  all  this  crowded  on  his  memory,  and 
the  thought  occurred  that  now  in  one  moment  all  its  magnifi¬ 
cence  would  be  given  to  the  flames  and  reduced  to  ashes,  he  sent 
some  Syracusans  who  had  been  serving  in  his  camp,  to  speak  the 
enemy  fair,  and  induce  them  to  surrender.” — (xxv.  24.) 

A  portion  of  the  city  was  surrendered,  but  only  to 
be  given  up  to  indiscriminate  plunder — in  spite  of  Mar- 
cellus’s  tears.  The  rest,  with  the  citadel,  still  held  out; 
and  vigorous  attempts  were  made  by  the  Carthagin¬ 
ians  to  relieve  it.  But  the  force  which  was  sent  from 
Carthage  perished  almost  to  a  man  from  malaria  in  the 
marshy  ground  where  they  lay — Hippocrates  (who  had 
broken  out  of  Syracuse)  among  them.  Their  fleet  also, 
partly  from  unfavorable  winds,  and  partly,  it  would 
seem,  from  lack  of  spirit  in  its  commander,  did  not 
venture  to  encounter  that  of  the  Romans:  and  the  dis¬ 
content  and  mutiny  of  the  foreign  mercenaries 
within  the  city  itself  led  at  length  to  its  betrayal  to 
Marcellus.  There  was  not  much  fighting  at  the  capture ; 
but  in  the  scene  of  violence,  plunder,  and  wanton 
bloodshed  that  followed,  one  notable  life  was  lost. 
Archimedes  was  found,  unconscious  of  all  the  noise 
and  tumult  round  him,  absorbed  in  working  out  a 
mathematical  problem  on  a  smooth  bed  of  sand.  To 
the  great  regret,  it  is  said,  of  Marcellus,  he  was  killed 
by  a  Roman  soldier,  who  knew  nothing  of  science  or 
its  professors.  The  city  was  completely  sacked  by  the 
soldiery;  and  the  plunder,  Livy  tells  us,  was  more 


*  Nicias  and  Demosthenes. 


THE  SECOND  PUNIC  WAR. 


119 


valuable  than  would  have  been  even  that  of  Carthage 
itself. 

Other  towns  in  Sicily,  which  had  revolted  from  Rome 
to  Carthage  when  they  saw,  as  they  thought,  their 
opportunity,  now  hastened  to  offer  their  submission; 
but  Marcell  us  dealt  with  them  all  with  the  utmost 
severity,  even  putting  to  death  the  chief  citizens  of  the 
anti  Roman  party.  His  conduct  left  such  a  terrible  im¬ 
pression  on  the  memories  of  the  Sicilians,  that  when,  in 
a  subsequent  consulship,  he  was  appointed  to  the  com¬ 
mand  in  the  island,  they  sent  to  implore  the  Roman 
senate  not  to  send  him  there.  A  half  caste  officer  of 
Hannibal's,  Mutines,  gave  still  some  trouble  in  Sicily, 
and  even  repulsed  Marcell  us  in  a  pitched  battle.  Mar- 
cellus’s  term  of  command  had  now  expired,  and  he  hur¬ 
ried  to  Rome  to  enjoy  his  triumph,  leaving  to  one  of 
the  new  consuls,  Laevinus,  the  difficulty  and  the  honor 
of  completing  the  subjugation  of  Sicily.  He  was  able 
to  inform  the  senate,  at  the  expiration  of  his  year  of 
office,  with  a  great  amount  of  self-complacency,  that  the 
island  was  thoroughly  got  into  order,  and  that  not  a 
Carthaginian  was  left  there. 

Our  author’s  annalistic  method  has  recorded  these 
events  in  Sicily  under  the  three  successive  years  in 
which  they  took  place.  It  is  more  convenient  here  to 
return  for  a  while  to  the  contemporary  events  in  other 
fields  where  Rome  was  carrying  on  the  war.*  In  Italy, 
Hannibal  had  surprised  and  taken  Tarentum;  Gracchus, 
one  of  the  consuls  who  succeeded  Fabius  and  Marcellus, 
was  killed  in  an  ambuscade;  and  an  old  centurion,  of 
more  courage  than  generalship,  who  succeeded  to  his 


*  The  chronology  of  these  operations,  as  given  by  Livy,  bears 
traces  of  confusion. 


120 


LIVT. 


command,  was  defeated  and  glain  by  Hannibal,  with 
15,000  of  his  men;  but  all  these  disasters  were  compen¬ 
sated  to  the  Romans  by  the  fall  of  Capua  in  the  follow¬ 
ing  year. 

The  Romans  were  determined  on  the  reduction  of 
their  rebel  dependency.  They  drew  round  it  all  their 
available  force  in  Italy;  and  after  giving  notice  to  all 
who  would  make  their  peace  with  Rome  to  evacuate 
it  before  a  certain  day,  they  encircled  it  with  a  triple 
line  of  works.  Hannibal  hastened  to  its  relief;  but  his 
terrible  cavalry  could  make  no  impression  on  the 
Roman  lines;  and,  with  a  sudden  bold  change  of  plan, 
by  a  rapid  niglit-marcli  he  struck  for  Rome.  He  took 
nearly  the  same  route  that  the  Gauls  had  taken  long 
ago;  and  the  terror  and  confusion  in  the  city  at  the 
news  of  his  approach  was  scarcely  less  than  had  fol¬ 
lowed  the  disaster  of  the  Allia.  Though  he  encamped 
within  three  miles  of  the  gates,  his  real  object  was  but 
to  draw  off  the  investing  army  from  Capua;  and  he  had 
no  means,  and  probably  no  thought  of  attempting  an 
assault  on  Rome.  He  plundered  the  rich  lands  round 
the  city  unchecked,  spite  of  the  rage  and  grief  of  the 
citizens,  who  had  seen  no  enemy  so  close  to  their  gates 
for  nearly  a  hundred  and  fifty  years.  He  rode  up  to 
reconnoitre  in  person,  with  his  staff,  Livy  tells  us,  to 
the  Colline  Gate;  but  that  was  all  he  saw  of  Rome. 
He  gained  no  respite  for  Capua;  only  a  very  small 
portion  of  the  besieging  army  was  recalled  for  the  de¬ 
fence  of  the  capital,  and,  baffled  and  disappointed,  lie 
retired  upon  Bruttium,  and  left  the  Capuans  to  their 
fate. 

That  fate  was  not  long  delayed,  and  it  was  terrible. 
They  entertained  no  hopes  of  mercy  from  the  Romans. 
Some  of  the  chief  citizens  took  poison  before  the  sur- 


THE  SECOND  PUNIC  WAR. 


121 


render.  Such  senators  as  were  found  alive  were 
scourged  and  then  beheaded.  It  is  said  that,  while 
they  were  bound  for  execution,  an  order  from  Rome 
reached  the  consul  Fulvius  for  their  reprieve;  that  he 
placed  it  in  his  bosom  unread,  and  bade  the  execution 
proceed.  Most  of  the  inhabitants  were  sold  for  slaves, 
and  all  their  lands  and  other  property  were  confiscated. 
Capua  had  been  Hannibal’s  one  great  conquest  in  Italy, 
and  the  blow  to  his  cause  there  was  proportionate. 

In  Spain  matters  had  gone  worse  for  the  Romans.  It 
is  more  than  probable  that  in  the  account  which  Livy 
has  borrowed  from  earlier  writers  of  the  exploits  of 
the  two  Scipios,  we  have  only  the  boastful  exaggera¬ 
tion  of  their  family  annals;  it  is  only  certain  that  they 
were  both  in  succession  defeated  and  slain  by  Hasdru- 
bal,  a  short  time  before  the  fall  of  Capua,  and  that  the 
Romans  were  driven  back  beyond  the  Ebro.  It  was 
reserved  for  a  younger  member  of  the  house  to  avenge 
the  deaths  of  his  relatives  and  retrieve  the  honor  of 
Rome.  But  it  is  by  no  means  certain  that  the  acts  of 
young  Publius  Scipio  have  not  received  the  same  kind 
of  decoration  in  the  family  chronicle  as  those  of  his 
father  and  uncle.  His  extraordinary  promise  had  led, 
we  are  told,  to  his  election  to  public  office  before  he 
was  of  legal  age;  and  now,  when  a  proconsul  was  to  be 
chosen  to  succeed  to  the  command  in  Spain,  and  men 
hung  back  from  an  honor  which  involved  so  much  re- 
sponsibility  under  such  discouraging  prospects,  young 
Scipio  came  forward  as  a  candidate,  and  was  elected  by 
acclamation. 

He  is  so  evidently  a  favorite,  both  with  the 
Roman  annalist  aud  with  Polybius,  whom  he  has 
followed,  that  we  have  his  character  drawn  by  partial 
hands.  But  there  can  be  no  question  of  his  having 


122 


LIVY. 


been  an  extraordinary  man,  and  of  his  exercising  a 
kind  of  fascination  over  those  who  were  brought  in 
contact  with  him.  Strange  tales  were  told  of  his 
birth,  and  of  a  mysterious  inspiration  which  he  re¬ 
ceived,  or  thought  he  received,  from  heaven;  of  his 
spending  hours  alone  in  the  temple  of  Jupiter  on  the 
Capitol  before  he  engaged  in  any  important  business. 
All  such  tales  he  was  at  least  at  no  pains  to  contra¬ 
dict,  and  men  regarded  him  with  a  certain  awe  as  well 
as  admiration. 

He  took  out  with  him  to  Spain  large  reinforcements, 
and  after  wintering  at  Tarraco  (Tarragona),  crossed  the 
Ebro  in  the  spring,  and  marched  straight  upon  New 
Carthage  (Cartagena) — the  most  important  of  the  Car¬ 
thaginian  towns,  the  base  of  their  military  operations, 
and  the  depot  of  their  stores  and  treasure.  He  stormed 
it  by  crossing  the  wide  lagoon  which  then  lay  at  its 
back;  and  for  some  time  the  place  was  given  up  to 
general  massacre  and  pillage.  An  immense  booty  was 
found  there,  besides  naval  stores  and  war  material  of 
all  kinds.  The  artificers  were  forced  into  the  Roman 
service,  and  the  able-bodied  citizens  and  their  slaves 
were  compelled  to  serve  as  rowers  in  the  fleet.  But 
there  were  other  prisoners  taken  in  the  place  to  whom 
Scipio  gave  very  different  treatment.  These  were  the 
hostages  from  the  several  towns  of  Spain,  whom  the 
Carthaginians  had  sent  there  for  safe  custody.  The 
Roman  commander,  by  a  studied  moderation  and 
courtesy,  sought  to  impress  on  them  how  much  it 
would  be  to  the  advantage  of  themselves  and  their 
countrymen  to  be  on  the  side  of  Rome  rather  than  of 
Carthage.  One  anecdote  will  serve  at  once  as  an  ex¬ 
ample  of  Scipio’s  policy,  and  of  Livy’s  facility  as  a 
writer  of  romapce. 


THE  SECOND  PUNIC  WAR 


123 


“  A  captive  was  brought  before  him  by  his  soldiers — a  grown¬ 
up  maiden  of  such  remarkable  beauty,  that  wherever  she  moved 
she  attracted  the  eyes  of  all.  Scipio  inquired  her  country  and 
her  parentage,  and  ascertained  amongst  other  things  that  she 
was  affianced  to  a  young  chief  of  the  Celtiberi,  whose  name  was 
Allucius.  He  at  once  sent  for  her  lover  and  her  parents  from 
their  homes,  and  heard  in  the  meanwhile  that  the  youth  was 
passionately  attached  to  her.  As  soon  as  they  arrived,  he  ad¬ 
dressed  himself  to  the  lover  more  particularly  than  to  the  par¬ 
ents.  1 1  address  myself,’  said  he,  ‘  as  one  young  man  to  another, 
that  there  may  be  less  embarrassment  between  us  in  this  inter¬ 
view.  When  your  betrothed  bride  was  brought  to  me  by  our 
soldiers,  I  heard  that  you  were  very  much  in  love  with  her — a 
fact  which  indeed  her  beauty  makes  me  readily  believe,  inas¬ 
much  as,  were  I  at  liberty  to  indulge  the  passions  natural  to  my 
age,  especially  in  an  honorable  and  lawful  way,  and  if  public 
duty  did  not  engross  all  my  thoughts,  I  might  have  claimed  in¬ 
dulgence,  had  I  become  desperately  enamoured  of  some  lady 
myself.  Your  passion,  at  least,  I  can  favor,  and  I  do.  Youi 
betrothed  has  been  treated  with  the  same  respect  while  in  my 
charge  as  she  would  have  been  under  the  roof  of  her  own  par¬ 
ents  and  your  future  connections.  She  has  been  kept  safe  for 
you,  that  I  might  present  her  to  you  untarnished,  a  gift  worthy 
alike  of  myself  and  you.  This  one  return  I  bargain  for  in  re¬ 
payment  for  this  gift  of  mine— become  the  friend  of  the  Roman 
people.  And  if  you  believe  me  to  be  a  man  of  honor,  as  these 
tribes  know  my  father  and  my  uncle  to  have  been,  I  would  have 
you  learn  that  there  are  many  like  us  in  the  state  of  Rome ;  and 
that  no  nation  can  be  named  at  this  day  upon  earth  whom  you 
ought  less  to  wish  to  have  for  enemies  to  you  and  yours,  or 
should  prefer  as  friends.’  The  young  chief,  overwhelmed  with 
embarrassment  and  joy,  grasped  Scipio’s  hand,  and  called  upon 
all  the  gods  to  repay  his  benefactor  an  obligation  which  it 
would  never  be  in  his  own  power  to  discharge  in  any  way  cor¬ 
respondent  to  his  own  feelings  and  Scipio’s  claims  upon  his 
gratitude.  Then  the  maiden’s  parents  and  relatives  were  sum¬ 
moned.  Finding  that  she  was  to  be  restored  to  them  gratuit¬ 
ously,  whereas  they  had  come  prepared  with  a  considerable 
weight  of  gold  for  her  ransom,  they  began  to  entreat  Scipio  to 
receive  it  from  them  as  a  present,  protesting  that  in  so  doing 
he  would  confer  upon  them  an  obligation  not  less  than  this  free 
and  honorable  restoration  of  their  daughter.  Seeing  them  so 


124 


LIVY. 


earnest  in  their  request,  Scipio  promised  that  he  would  accept 
the  gold,  and  bade  it  to  be  laid  at  his  feet.  Then,  calling  Allu- 
cius  to  him,  he  said,  ‘  As  an  addition  to  the  dowry  which  you 
will  receive  from  your  father-in-law,  take  this  as  my  wedding 
present;’  and  he  desired  him  to  take  the  gold  and  keep  it  for 
himself.  The  bridegroom  took  his  leave,  delighted  alike  at  the 
gift  and  the  compliment,  and  went  home  to  fill  the  ears  of  his 
countrymen  with  the  praises  of  Scipio.  ‘  There  had  come  upon 
earth  a  hero  like  unto  the  gods,  conquering  all  men  not  only  by 
his  valor,  but  by  his  kindness  and  munificence.’  And  he  straight¬ 
way  made  a  levy  of  his  retainers,  and,  with  fifteen  hundred 
picked  horsemen,  returned  in  a  few  days  to  Scipio.” — (xxvi.  50.) 

But  neither  the  popularity  of  the  new  Roman  general 
with  all  the  Spanish  tribes,  nor  a  subsequent  victory 
over  Hasd rubai  which  is  ascribed  to  him,  enabled  him 
to  prevent  the  latter  from  marching  to  the  support  of 
his  brother  Hannibal  in  Italy. 

Meanwhile  the  state  of  things  in  Italy  itself  looked 
gloomy  in  the  extreme.  In  spite  of  Marcellus’s  con¬ 
quest  of  Syracuse,  in  spite  of  the  recovery  of  Capua, 
the  distress  in  Rome  was  severe,  and  there  was  disaffec¬ 
tion  among  her  allies.  Twelve  of  the  thirty  colonial 
towns  distinctly  refused  the  usual  contributions  of  men 
and  money — “they  had  neither  men  nor  money  to 
give.”  The  resources  of  Rome  would  have  failed  ut¬ 
terly  and  at  once,  had  the  remaining  eighteen  followed 
the  example.  But  instead  of  this,  they  not  only  fur- 
nished  the  quota  demanded,  but  said  that  “more  was 
ready  if  required.”  The  ravages  of  Hannibal  made 
corn  scarce  and  dear;  and  a  new  tax,  absolutely  neces¬ 
sary  to  maintain  the  navy,  led  to  such  imminent 
danger  of  insurrection,  that  the  commons  were  only 
pacified  by  the  gallant  self-devotion  and  liberality  of 
the  senators  and  knights,  who  placed  at  the  disposal  of 
the  treasury  commissioners  all  their  gold  and  silver 
plate  and  coined  money,  with  only  some  small  personal 


THE  SECOND  PUNIC  WAP. 


125 


reservations.  The  sacred  treasure,  reserved  for  any 
great  emergency,  was  also  brought  out  and  employed — 
“four  thousand  pounds’  weight  of  gold.” 

The  next  campaigns  were  unfortunate.  Of  the  com¬ 
manders  against  Hannibal,  Fulvius  was  killed,  and  his 
army  destroyed;  and  Marcellus,  consul  for  the  sixlh 
time  in  the  following  year,  while  reconnoitring  with 
his  cavalry,  met  his  death  in  an  ambuscade,  in  which 
also  his  colleague  Crispinus  was  mortally  wounded. 
Thus  Rome  lost  both  her  consuls  on  one  fatal  day. 
The  two  armies  threw  themselves  into  Venusia  and 
Capua.  And  now  came  news  that  Hasdrubal  had 
slipped  by  Scipio  in  Spain,  had  turned  the  Pyrenees, 
crossed  Gaul,  and  was  on  his  way  to  join  his  brother 
Hannibal.  He  crossed  the  Alps  by  the  same  route 
which  the  latter  had  taken,  but  more  rapidly,  and  with 
much  less  difficulty,  than  his  brother  had  done.  He 
seems  to  have  marched  through  Lombardy  without 
opposition;  and  Livius,  the  consul  sent  to  oppose  him 
on  the  frontier,  was  obliged  to  fall  back  before  him.* 
But  the  despatches  which  were  to  announce  to  his 
brother  his  arrival  and  his  plans  fell  into  the  hands  of 
the  other  consul,  Claudius  Nero,  who  lay  at  Venusia, 
watching  Hannibal;  and  he  at  once  determined  on  a 
course  which  has  always  been  admired  for  its  boldness, 
and  perhaps  also  for  its  success.  He  made  a  rapid 
night-march  with  a  picked  body  of  7000  men,  and  be¬ 
fore  Hannibal  missed  him,  was  far  on  his  road  to  join 
his  colleague,  and  so  crush  Hasdrubal,  if  possible,  by 
their  united  weight,  before  he  could  join  his  brother. 
The  manoeuvre  was  thoroughly  successful.  Unwilling- 


*  As  to  the  details  of  this  campaign,  Arnold  remarks  that 
“  what  we  have  in  Livy  is  absolutely  worthless,” 


126 


LIVY. 


ly  the  Carthaginian,  after  an  attempt  at  retreat,  gave 
battle  on  the  Metaurus  river,  and  was  there  utterly  de¬ 
feated,  with  a  loss  which  was  no  doubt  heavy,  however 
Roman  boasts  may  have  exaggerated  it.  Livy  pays 
an  honest  tribute  to  the  gallantry  of  Hasdrubal :  great 
in  many  battles,  he  says,  he  was  never  so  great  as  in 
this. 

“  He  it  was  who  kept  his  men  up,  while  they  fought,  by  cheer¬ 
ing  them,  and  facing  every  personal  danger  like  themselves;  he 
it  was  who,  when  they  were  tired  out,  and  gave  way  from  very 
weariness  and  fatigue,  reawoke  their  spirit  now  by  entreaties 
and  now  by  reproaches;  he  rallied  them  when  they  fled,  and  re¬ 
stored  the  battle  at  many  points  where  the  struggle  had  ceased. 
At  last,  when  it  was  clear  that  the  day  was  the  enemy’s,  refusing 
to  survive  the  fate  of  the  army  which  had  followed  him  as 
leader,  he  spurred  his  horse  right  into  one  of  the  Roman  cohorts. 
There  he  fell,  fighting  to  the  last,  as  became  a  son  of  Hamilcar 
and  a  brother  of  Hannibal.” — (xxvii.  49.) 

Nero  hurried* back  as  rapidly  as  he  came;  found 
Hannibal  still  waiting  news  of  his  brother;  sent  two 
Carthaginian  prisoners  into  his  camp  to  bear  the  tid¬ 
ings  of  their  defeat;  and  bade  the  severed  head  of  Has¬ 
drubal  be  thrown  down  in  front  of  the  Carthaginian 
outposts,  that  Hannibal  might  recognize  the  dead  face 
(he  had  not  looked  on  it  for  eleven  years),  and  know 
by  this  sad  token  the  fate  of  his  brother’s  army.  So 
much  more  of  the  barbarian  spirit  had  a  Roman  con¬ 
sul,  on  the  Roman  annalist’s  own  showing,  than  the 
great  Carthaginian  whom  it  was  the  fashion  at  Rome 
to  call  perfidious  and  cruel;  for  Hannibal  had,  not  long 
ago,  given  honorable  burial  to  the  body  of  Marcellus,  as 
he  had  to  Gracchus  in  Lucania,  to  Paulus  ^Emilius, 
after  Cannae,  and  as  he  sought  to  do  in  the  case  of 
Flaminius,  the  consul  who  fell  at  Lake  Thrasy menus. 

Always  melodramatic,  Livy  tells  us  that  when  Han- 


THE  SECOND  PUNIC  WAR. 


127 


nibal  looked  on  the  severed  head  of  his  brother,  he 
said  that  “he  recognized  there  the  fate  of  Carthage.” 
Whatever  be  the  truth  of  the  story,  there  is  no  doubt 
that  the  great  victory  on  the  Metaurus  was  the  turning- 
point  in  the  fortunes  of  the  contending  powers.  Hal- 
lam  classes  it  amongst  the  few  great  battles  “  of  which 
a  contrary  event  would  have  essentially  varied  the 
drama  of  the  world.”  Rome  dre#  breath  after  it,  as 
freed,  almost  beyond  hope  or  expectation,  from  a  ter¬ 
rible  peril.  It  is  hardly  possible  to  do  justice  by  any 
translation  to  the  fine  chapter  in  which  the  annalist 
describes  the  reception  in  the  city  of  the  good  news. 
It  is  the  counter- picture  to  the  scene  after  Tlirasy- 
menu$ 

“  While  the  city  was  in  this  state  of  anxious  suspense,  there 
came  a  rumor,  vague  at  first,  that  two  Narnian  horsemen  had 
ridden  from  the  battle  to  the  Roman  force,  which  lay  watching 
the  passes  of  Umbria,  with  the  news  that  the  enemy  had  received 
a  heavy  blow.  Men  took  it  in  with  their  ears  rather  than  their 
minds,  as  too  great  and  too  joyful  to  be  entertained  in  thought, 
or  really  believed.  The  very  rapidity  of  the  communication  was 
an  objection,  for  the  battle  was  said  to  have  taken  place  only 
two  days  before.  Soon  a  letter  was  brought  in  from  Manlius, 
from  the  camp  announcing  the  arrival  of  the  horsemen.  When 
this  letter  was  carried  through  the  Forum  to  the  court  of  the  city 
preetor,  the  senate  rose  in  a  body  fi’om  their  hall ;  and  such  a 
rush  and  struggle  was  made  by  the  people  towards  the  doors  of 
the  senate-house,  that  the  courier  could  not  make  his  way 
through,  but  was  dragged  to  and  fro  by  eager  inquirers  demand¬ 
ing  loudly  that  he  should  read  it  on  the  public  rostra  before  he 
carried  it  in  to  the  senate.  At  last  the  crowd  was  forced  back, 
and  kept  under  restraint  by  the  authorities,  and  the  joyful  news 
was  circulated  by  degrees,  though  men’s  minds  were  as  yet  un¬ 
able  to  realize  it.  The  letter  was  read  in  the  senate  first,  then  in 
public  to  the  people;  and,  according  to  their  various  dispositions 
some  felt  an  assured  joy,  others  would  give  no  credit  to  the  tale 


*  See  p.  108. 


128 


LIVY. 


until  they  had  either  heard  or  seen  despatches  from  the  consuls 
themselves. 

Presently  word  was  brought  that  official  messengers  were 
coming.  Then  young  and  old  went  forth  to  meet  them,  each  long' 
ing  to  be  the  first  to  drink  in  such  joyful  tidings  with  eyes  and 
ears.  There  was  one  continuous  stream  of  people  out  as  far  as 
the  Milvian  bridge.  The  officers  entered  the  Forum,  the  oentre 
of  a  crowd  of  all  ranks.  Some  questioned  them,  and  some  those 
who  escorted  them,  as  to  what  had  happened ;  and  as  each  heard 
the  news,  that  theenefny’s  forces  and  their  commander  were  cut 
to  pieces— that  the  Roman  legions  were  safe — that  the  consuls 
were  unharmed, — they  at  once  imparted  their  joy  to  others.  .  .  . 
The  temples  during  the  next  three  days  were  crowded;  wives 
and  mothers  in  holiday  attire,  leading  their  children  with  them, 
were  giving  thanks  to  heaven,  and  casting  off  all  fear,  as  though 
the  war  were  already  ended.”— (xxvii.  50,  51.) 

Meanwhile  the  conquest  of  Spain  was  rapidly  being 
accomplished  under  Scipio.  He  won  a  great  victory 
over  Hasdrubal,  known  as  “  the  son  of  Gisgo,”  to  dis 
tiqguish  him  from  the  brother  of  Hannibal.  Such 
towns  as  still  held  out  against  the  Romans  hastened  to 
make  their  submission;  and  the  defeated  general  em¬ 
barked  what  remained  of  his  army  for  Africa,  leaving 
Spain  for  the  present  so  far  clear  of  Carthaginians,  that 
Scipio’s  lieutenant,  Silanus,  was  able  to  announce  to 
him  that  “the  war  was  over.”  But  the  boast  came 
somewhat  too  soon. 

The  Roman  commander  was  now  eager  to  carry  the 
war  into  the  enemy’s  country.  He  was  not  content  to 
be  the  conqueror  of  Spain:  he  longed  to  add  to  his 
glories  the  reduction  of  Carthage  itself.  He  crossed  at 
once  into  Africa,  with  some  hope  of  securing  to  the 
Roman  interests  one  of  the  most  powerful  of  the  native 
princes,  Syphax,  king  of  the  Masaesjdians,  who  had  in¬ 
vited  him  to  a  conference.  At  his  table  Scipio  found 
himself  seated  next  to  his  latt  opponent,  Hasdrubal 


THE  SECOND  PUNIC  WAR. 


129 


Gisgo,  ■  and,  if  we  may  trust  tlie  partial  historian, 
charmed  him,  as  he  did  all  who  came  into  personal 
relations  with  him,  by  the  grace  of  his  bearing  and  con¬ 
versation.  Thinking  that  he  had  secured  Syphax — 
who  appears  to  have  been  only  playing  with  him — he 
returned  to  Spain,  to  find  some  new  troubles  there. 
He  had  to  “  punish”  certain  towns  which  had  probably 
taken  occasion  of  his  absence  to  revolt;  and  he  did  so 
effectually.  Then  there  arose  a  far  more  serious  diffi¬ 
culty,  in  the  mutiny  of  a  portion  of  his  own  troops,  on 
the  ground  of  the  hopeless  arrears  of  pay,  and  their 
long  absence  from  home;  and  in  the  midst  of  it  he  was 
seized  with  a  dangerous  illness.  The  report  that  he 
was  dying  roused  some  Spanish  tribes  once  more  to 
take  up  arms;  and,  as  a  proof  of  his  great  personal  in¬ 
fluence,  and  the  widespread  awe  and  admiration  which 
he  inspired,  no  sooner  did  tlieir  leaders  hear  he  was 
recovering  than  they  were  struck  with  complete  panic. 
The  mutiny  among  his  own  men  he  put  down  with  a 
*  strong  hand,  and  with  no  little  diplomacy;  the  ring¬ 
leaders  were  cleverly  secured,  and  straightway  exe¬ 
cuted.  With  the  revolted  Spaniards,  who  now  fought 
in  sheer  despair  of  pardon,  he  had  a  desperate  battle; 
but  he  was  completely  victorious,  and  Mago.  the  last 
of  the  Carthaginian  generals  who  clung  to  Spain,  was 
summoned  away  to  head  a  descent  upon  Liguria,  and, 
if  possible,  to  rally  Northern  Italy  against  the  Romans. 

Scipio  himself  hurried  to  Rome,  to  stand  for  the 
consulship.  He  was  elected;  but,  to  his  great  disap^ 
pointment,  he  could  not  get  a  commission  to  take  the 
command  in  Africa.  Old  Fabius  Maximus — not  too 
old  to  make  a  very  long  speech,  in  our  annalist’s  pages 
— protested  against  it  as  a  patent  imprudence,  so  long 
as  Hannibal  maintained  his  ground  in  Italy. 


130 


LIVY. 


He  did  maintain  bis  ground  there  four  years  longer, 
though  he  did  scarcely  more.  He  confined  himself 
chiefly  to  Bruttium,  and  the  Romans  seem  never  to 
have  ventured  to  attack  him  in  the  field;  but  the  want 
of  support  from  Carthage,  the  difficulty  of  maintaining 
his  troops,  and  the  Italian  malaria,  were  far  more  har¬ 
assing  enemies.  His  brother  Mago  made  his  descent 
upon  Genoa  from  the  Balearic  Isles,  where  he  had  col¬ 
lected  a  strong  naval  and  land  force;  but  though  his 
capture  of  the  town  drew’  numbers  of  the  Ligurians  and 
Gauls  to  his  standard,  he  was  unable  to  carry  out  his 
instructions  to  effect  a  junction  with  Hannibal.  He 
was  defeated,  after  an  obstinate  battle,  by  the  Roman 
force  sent  to  oppose  him,  and  was  mortally  wounded. 
It  was  at  this  juncture  that  both  he  and  his  brother 
were  recalled  to  Africa,  which  he  reached  only  to  die. 

Scipio  had  been  prevented  from  making  Africa  the 
ostensible  scene  of  his  operations;  but  he  had  the  per¬ 
mission  of  his  government  to  cross  over  there,  “  if  he 
held  it  to  be  for  the  interest  of  the  state.”  He  did  hold 
it  so  to  be;  and  amidst  the  general  enthusiasm  of  his 
troops,  picked  for  the  service,  and  the  admiration  of 
-the  crowds  of  provincials  who  thronged  the  shore,  with 
all  solemn  pomp  and  magnificence,  and  the  prayers  to 
heaven  which  he  knew’  so  well  how  to  use  with  effect, 
he  set  sail  from  Lilybaeum. 

“  After  this  prayer,  a  sacrifice  was  offered,  and  he  casttthe  raw 
entrails  of  the  victim,  according  to  custom,  into  the  sea,  and 
bade  the  trumpet  sound  for  weighing  anchor.  They  set  sail 
with  a  stiff  breeze  in  their  favor,  and  were  soon  carried  out  of 
sight  of  land.  At  mid-day  a  fog  came  on,  so  that  the  ships  with 
difficulty  escaped  running  foul  of  one  another.  When  they  were 
well  out  at  sea  the  wind  slackened .  During  the  following  night 
the  haze  continued,  but  when  the  sun  rose  it  dispersed,  and  the 
Wind  got  up  again.  They  now  sighted  land;  and  the  pilot  soon 


THE  SECOND  PUNIC  WAR 


131 


afterwards  said  to  Scipio  that  they  were  not  above  five  miles 
from  the  coast  of  Africa;  that  he  could  see  Mercury’s  Point ;* 
and  that  if  he  pleased  to  give  orders  to  make  for  it,  the  whole 
fleet  would  be  presently  in  harbor.  When  Scipio  got  sight  of 
land,  he  prayed  the  gods  that  this  his  first  view  of  Africa  might 
be  for  his  country’s  honor  and  his  own:  then  bade  the  fleet 
spread  sail  and  make  for  another  landing-place  lower  down  the 
coast.  The  wind  was  fair  in  that  direction.  But  the  fog,  coming 
on  about  the  same  time  as  the  day  before,  soon  shut  the  land 
from  sight,  and  as  the  fog  grew  thicker  the  wind  dropped.  Night¬ 
fall  made  their  position  difficult  to  ascertain;  they  therefore  cast 
anchor,  for  fear  the  vessels  might  foul  each  other  or  run  ashore. 
When  day  broke,  the  breeze  sprang  up  again,  the  fog  dispersed, 
and  discovered  the  whole  coast  of  Africa.  Scipio  asked  what  the 
name  of  the  nearest  headland  was:  and  when  he  learnt  that  it 
was  called  ‘  Fair  Point,’  t— ‘  I  accept  the  omen,’  said  he;  ‘  steer 
right  for  it.’  For  that  point  the  fleet  stood  in,  and  there  the 
whole  force  was  landed.”— (xxix.  27.) 

His  success  was  rapid.  He  had  been  disappointed  in 
Syphax  as  an  ally;  but  Massinissa,  king  of  a  Numidian 
tribe — a  wily  and  treacherous  barbarian,  but  an  able 
leader  of  irregular  cavalry — had  just  been  driven  from 
his  dominions  by  this  very  Syphax,  and  took  advantage 
of  it  to  transfer  his  services  from  Carthage  to  the 
Romans,  a  step  which  he  had  long  been  meditating. 
Scipio  had  once  laid  him  under  obligation  in  Spain,  and 
they  had  already  been  in  correspondence.  His  cavalry 
was  of  the  greatest  use  to  the  Romans  in  their  new 
campaign.  The  camps  of  the  Numidians  and  Carthagin¬ 
ians — mere  wattled  huts  cove-red  with  thatch  and  dried 
leaves — were  ^surprised  and  burnt;  and  in  the  massacre 
— for  it  could  hardly  be  called  a  fight — which  followed, 
30,000  Carthaginians  are  said  to  have  been  killed,  and 
the  Numidian  force  of  60,000  men  was  either  cut  to 

*  Now  Cape  Bon. 

t  Pulchrum  Promontorium;  now  Cape  Farina. 


132 


LIVY. 


pieces  or  dispersed.*  Sypliax  was  followed  iuto  Numi- 
dia,  defeated,  and  sent  prisoner  to  Rome,  and  Massin- 
issa  regained  liis  kingdom. 

It  was  not  therefore  before  Hannibal’s  presence  was 
needed  at  home  that  he,  like  his  brother  Mago,  was 
summoned  home  from  Italy.  But  Hannibal  himself, 
thus  torn  from  the  field  of  his  conquests  and  his  hopes 
--though  it  was  only  what  he  had  for  some  time  ex¬ 
pected — -was  not  likely  to  take  this  view. 

“  He  is  said  to  have  groaned  aloud  and  ground  his  teeth,  and 
Scarcely  to  have  refrained  from  tears,  as  he  listened  to  the 
message  of  the  envoys.  When  they  had  delivered  themselves  of 
their  instructions,  ‘Ay,’  said  he,  ‘now  they  recall  me  in  plain 
terms  instead  of  by  implication,— they  who  have  so  long  been 
trying  to  drag  me  back  by  refusing  me  men  or  money.  Hanni¬ 
bal  is  defeated— not  by  the  Roman  people,  whom  he  has  so  often 
beaten  and  put  to  flight,  but  by  the  Carthaginian  government, 
their  jealousy  and  envy.  Not  Scipio  himself  will  boast  and  exult 
so  much  in  this  ignominious  return  of  mine,  as  will  Hanno,  who 
seeks  to  effect  the  destruction  of  our  house  by  the  ruin  of  Car¬ 
thage,  since  he  can  do  it  in  no  other  way.’  .  .  .  Seldom  was  any 
man,  leaving  his  native  land  for  foreign  exile,  known  to  have 
parted  from  it  with  more  evident  sorrow  than  Hannibal  showed 
in  quitting  the  soil  of  an  enemy.  Often,  as  he  looked  back  on 
the  shores  of  Italy,  he  accused  gods  and  men,  and  cursed  himself 
and  his  folly,  ‘  that  he  had  not  led  his  troops  straight  to  Rome 
while  their  swords  were  yet  red  from  the  victory  of  Cannae.’  ” — 
(xxx.  20.) 

Scipio  was  closely  blockading  Utica,  when  envoys 
were  sent  to  him  from  Carthage  to  sue  for  peace.  The 
terms  which  he  is  said  to  have  offered  them,  and  they 
to  have  accepted,  amounted  almost  to  submission.  The 
Carthaginians  were  to  evacuate  Italy,  Gaul,  and  Spain ; 
to  cede  to  Rome  all  the  islands  which  lay  between  Italy 
and  Africa;  to  give  up  all  their  ships  of  war  but  twenty; 


*  “The  annals  of  war  contain  no  bloodier  tragedy.” — Arnold, 


THE  SECOND  PUNIC  WAR. 


133 


and  to  pay  the  Romans  a  large  indemnity  in  corn  and 
money.  Hard  as  the  terms  were,  they  had  to  be  referred 
to  Rome  for  approval;  and  a  truce  was  agreed  upon  for 
this  purpose.  If  we  are  to  trust  the  Roman  annalist, 
the  truce  was  broken  by  the  Carthaginians,  elated  at  the 
prospect  of  Hannibal’s  return.  The  whole  story  is 
apocryphal,  as  are  the  details  of  the  meeting  which 
Livy  records  as  having  taken  place  between  Hannibal 
and  the  Roman  consul  soon  after  his  landing, — in  which 
“  both  stood  for  a  while  silent,  as  though  struck  dumb 
by  mutual  admiration,”* — and  the  story  of  the  Car¬ 
thaginian  spies  whom  Scipio  detected,  and  ordered  to 
be  led  round  his  camp  to  see  for  themselves  and  report 
what  they  would  to  their  chief.  Whatever  may  have 
been  the  true  history  of  the  negotiations  for  peace,  they 
ended  in  nothing;  and  the  two  commanders  and  their 
forces  met  on  the  field  of  Zama.f 
The  fight  was  long  and  obstinate.  The  eighty  ele¬ 
phants  which  were  ranged  in  the  front  of  the  Carthagin¬ 
ians,  and  on  which  they  still  placed  great  dependence, 
were  left  a  free  course  to  the  Roman  rear,  through 
openings  in  the  line,  by  Scipio’s  skilful  arrangement, 
and  so  did  little  execution,  and  even  broke  to  the  wings 
against  their  own  cavalry.  Massinissa’s  horse  did  good 
service.  But  the  deciding  contest  lay  between  the 
Roman  legionaries,  picked  men  as  they  all  were,  and 
Hannibal’s  veterans,  soldiers  by  profession  and  training, 
who  had  followed  him  over  the  Alps  and  through  Italy. 
Neither  would  give  way,  until  Lselius  and  Massinissa 
with  the  Roman  and  Numidian  horse,  returning  from  the 
brief  pursuit  of  the  enemy’s  cavalry,  charged  their  infan- 


*  Book  xxx.,  ch.  30. 

t  The  real  site  of  the  battle  is  uncertain. 


134 


LIVY. 


try  in  the  rear.  Then  the  day  was  over:  20,000  of  the 
Carthaginians  are  said  to  have  been  killed,  and  as  many 
taken  prsioners.  Scipio  was  advancing  upon  Carthage 
by  sea,  when  a  ship  met  him  with  a  flag  of  truce.  The 
terms  he  insisted  on  were  even  harder  than  before;  Car¬ 
thage  was  now  to  retain  only  ten  ships;  to  pledge  itself 
to  engage  in  no  war  out  of  Africa  itself,  or  even  there 
without  consent  of  the  Romans;  to  maintain  the  Roman 
army  in  pay  and  rations  for  three  months;  and  to  give 
a  hundred  hostages  of  the  conqueror’s  selection.  There 
was  some  hesitation  in  the  Carthaginian  senate  as  to 
their  acceptance  ;  when  Hannibal,  wno  had  escaped 
from  the  battle  with  a  few  horsemen,  rose  and  spoke 
in  favor  of  peace  at  any  price.  Peace  was  signed;  the 
great  Punic  War — or,  as  the  Romans  justly  called  it, 
the  war  with  Hannibal — was  over  ;  and  the  career  of 
one  of  the  greatest  generals — if  not  the  very  greatest 
— of  any  time  or  country,  was  ended  at  the  early  age 
of  forty-five.  He  lived  nearly  twenty  years  after¬ 
wards;  but  we  shall  find  him  soon  banished  from 
Carthage  (where  he  had  always  jealous  enemies),  at 
the  demand  of  the  Romans,  and  he  never  afterwards 
held  any  except  a  subordinate  naval  command  undei 
Antiochus  of  Syria. 


CHAPTER  X. 

THE  ROMANS  IN  GREECE. 

BOOKS  XXX-XXXIV.  B.C.  200-194.) 

We  have  now  arrived  at  the  period  in  history  when 
Rome  comes  into  distinct  contact  with  Greece.  Philip 
Y,  of  Ma^pdon  had  made  an  alliance  with  Carthage,  as 


THE  ROMANS  IN  GREECE. 


135 


we  have  seen,  after  Hannibal’s  great  victory  at  Cannae; 
but  the  hostilities  between  him  and  the  Romans  had  not 
been  carried  on  very  actively;  and  the  latter,  fully  oc¬ 
cupied  with  Spain  and  Africa,  had  not  been  sorry  to 
make  a  truce  with  Philip,  which  had  now  lasted  some 
years. 

But  after  the  battle  of  Zama,  appeals  came  in  from 
more  quarters  than  one  for  aid  against  the  growing  en¬ 
croachments  of  Philip’s  ambition.  One  of  his  generals 
was  investing  Athens;  his  admirals  at  sea  were  en¬ 
deavoring  to  make  themselves  masters  of  the  HEgean, 
by  humbling  the  naval  power  of  Rhodes  and  of  Attalus 
king  of  Pergamus,  the  old  and  faithful  ally  of  Rome ; 
and  all,  in  their  difficulty,  turned  their  eyes  to  Rome. 
The  reply  which  the  Roman  senate  gave  to  the  envoys 
from  Rhodes  and  Pergamus  was  in  a  truly  imperial 
tone:  “ The  senate  would  see  to  the  affairs  of  Asia.” 
Whether  Philip  heard  of  the  answer  or  no,  he  was  a 
match  for  them  in  lofty  words.  He  had  made  himself 
master  of  all  the  important  coast  towns  of  Thrace,  and 
was  investing  Abydos.  The  Roman  commissioner  who 
was  sent  to  remonstrate  with  him  was  an  JEmilius, 
somewhat  young  for  his  office.  He  spoke  as  Philip  had 
not  been  accustomed  to  hear.  The  Macedonian  answered 
with  some  dignity : 

“  ‘Your  youth,  sir,*  said  he,  ‘and  your  personal  advantages, 
and  more  than  all,  your  Roman  name,  makes  you  use  somewhat 
bold  language.  My  desire  is,  in  the  first  place,  that  you  would 
remember  your  treaty  with  me,  and  maintain  the  peace.  If  you 
trouble  me  with  war,  I  am  prepared  to  make  you  feel  that  the 
Macedonian  rule  and  the  Macedonian  name  can  win  as  great  re¬ 
nown  in  war  as  the  Roman.’  (xxxi.  18.) 

With  the  exception  of  the  Acarnanians  and  Boeotians, 
all  the  Greek  states  either  joined  the  Romans  in  the  war 


136 


LIVY. 


against  Philip  or  stood  neutral.  In  n.c.  200,  a  Roman 
consular  army  crossed  from  Brundusium  to  Apollonia 
in  Epirus.  It  was  unlike,  in  many  respects,  the  armies 
of  the  Punic  wars.  The  men  were  all  nominally  volun¬ 
teers  for  the  service  (for  a  levy  had  been  found  too  un¬ 
popular);  and  there  were  in  the  force  a  thousand  Numi- 
dian  cavalry,  and  elephants  brought  from  Carthage. 

The  war  lingered  on  without  any  great  result  for  two 
years,  until  it  was  terminated  by  a  great  victory  won 
over  Philip  at  Cynocephalae  by  Titus  Flamininus,  a 
young  Roman  general  of  the  new  school,  himself  half  a 
Greek  in  tastes  and  habits,  but  an  energetic  and  capable 
commander.  The  defeat  was  complete,  and  the  Mace¬ 
donian  power  was  crushed.  The  phalanx  once  broken 
became  a  h  lples  mass  of  confusion;  aud  the  elephants, 
which  had  already  done  the  Romans  good  service  in  these 
campaigns,  contributed  much  to  the  victory.  While 
the  enemy  lost  13,000  men  in  killed  and  prisoners,  the 
Roman  loss,  according  to  Livy  was  not  more  than  700. 
Philip  was  compelled  to  accept  the  terms  which  had 
been  already  offered  by  the  Romans.  He  had  to  sur¬ 
render  all  his  conquests  in  Asia,  in  Greece,  and  on  the 
coasts  of  the  -Egean,  retaining  only  his  ancestral  king¬ 
dom  of  Macedonia;  to  give  up  nearly  all  his  fleet,  to 
pay  a  large  indemnity,  and  to  become  in  matters  of  war 
and  peace  almost  the  vassal  of  Rome. 

Flamininus  made  what  was  almost  a  triumphal  prog¬ 
ress  through  Greece  to  Corinth,  to  be  present  there  at 
the  great  Isthmian  games.  His  fancy  was  to  produce 
an  effect  which  we  should  now  call  sensational.  Ten 
commissioners  had  arrived  from  Rome  with  the  ratifica¬ 
tion  of  the  conditions  of  peace. 

“The  Romans  took  their  seats  at  the  spectacle.  Then  the 
herald,  with  his  trumpeter,  according  to  custom,  advanced  into 


THE  HOMANS  IN  GREECE. 


137 

the  centre  of  the  arena,  where  proclamation  of  the  games  is  wont 
to  be  made  in  solemn  form;  and  when  the  trumpet  had  sounded 
for  silence,  spoke  aloud  as  follows:  ‘  The  senate  and  people  of 
Rome,  and  Titus  Quinctius  beir  general,  having  conquered  King 
Philip  and  the  Macedonians,  hereby  pronounce  free  and  inde¬ 
pendent,  and  subject  only  to  their  own  laws,  the  Corinthians, 
Phocians,  and  all  the  Locrians;  the  island  of  Euboea,  the  Magne- 
sians,  the  Thessalians,  the  Perrhaebians,  and  the  Achseans  of 
Phthiotis.’  He  had  recited  all  the  states  hitherto  subject  to  King 
Philip.  When  the  herald’s  words  were  heard,  the  joy  was  too 
great  for  the  hearers  to  take  it  in  all  at  once.  Each  could  scarce 
believe  he  had  heard  aright;  men  looked  at  each  other  in  amaze¬ 
ment,  as  though  it  were  all  an  empty  dream.  They  questioned 
their  neighbors  as  to  the  points  in  the  proclamation  which  con¬ 
cerned  themselves,  mistrusting  their  own  ears.  The  herald  was 
recalled;  every  one  wants  not  only  to  hear  but  see  this  messenger 
of  liberty:  he  repeated  the  words  again.  Then,  when  the  joyful 
tidings  were  confirmed,  there  rose  such  clamor  of  cheers,  and 
clapping  of  hands,  and  so  often  repeated,  as  to  show  that  of  all 
blessings  none  is  so  dear  to  the  masses  as  liberty.  The  games 
were  then  hurried  through,  for  none  had  either  thought  or  eyes 
for  the  show;  so  entirely  did  that  one  great  joy  preoccupy  their 
minds,  that  they  had  no  sense  of  other  pleasures.  When  the  games 
were  over,  all  pressed  hurriedly  to  where  the  Roman  general  sat; 
insomuch  that,  owing  to  the  rush  of  the  crowd  to  get  near  his 
person,  eager  to  grasp  his  hand,  and  throwing  wreaths  and  rib¬ 
bon-knots  upon  him,  he  was  almost  in  personal  danger.  How¬ 
ever,  he  was  a  young  man  of  three-and-thirty ;  and  the  vigor  of 
youth,  as  well  as  his  gratification  in  this  realization  of  his  glories, 
gave  him  strength.  Nor  did  this  effusion  of  universal  joy  last 
only  for  the  moment:  it  was  revived  for  many  days  in  men’s 
thoughts  and  conversation.  ‘  There  was  then  one  nation  on  earth 
which,  at  its  own  cost,  its  own  toil  and  peril,  would  wage  war  for 
the  liberties  of  others;  and  this  it  did  not  merely  for  contiguous 
or  near  neighbors,  or  peoples  inhabiting  the  same  continent ;  it 
would  cross  the  seas,  in  order  that  there  should  be  no  unjust  do¬ 
minion  throughout  all  the  world,  but  that  everywhere  justice, 
law,  and  right  should  bear  rule.  By  a  single  herald's  voice,  all 
the  cities  of  Greece  and  Asia  had  been  made  free.  To  have  con. 
ceived  the  hope  of  this,  betokened  a  daring  spirit;  to  have  carried 
it  into  effect,  showed  equal  valor  and  good  fortune.”  — 
(xxxiii.  32,  33.) 


188 


LIVY. 


One  is  tempted  to  ask,  did  Flamininus  write  his  owii 
bulletins  of  the  war?  But  that  he  was  a  great  favorite 
with  the  Greeks,  and  that  he  had  a  great  admiration  for 
many  of  their  habits  and  tastes,  seems  certain.  He 
would  have  conferred  a  more  real  freedom  on  Sparta  if 
he  had  effectually  delivered  it  from  the  domination  of 
.  its  tyrant  Nabis,  who  had  originally  espoused  the  cause 
of  Philip,  but  of  whom  the  Romans  had  unscrupulously 
made  a  friend  for  their  own  purposes,  until  the  con¬ 
tinual  complaints  of  his  neighbors  induced  them  to  di¬ 
rect  Flamininus  to  deal  with  him  as  he  thought  fit.  He 
reduced  him  to  something  like  quiet;  and  at  the  great 
Nemean  games  held  at  Argos  under  the  presidency  of 
the  Roman  general,  a  very  similar  scene  took  place  to 
that  at  the  Isthmus  a  year  before.  The  “freedom”  of 
Argos  from  the  oppression  of  Nabis,  into  whose  hands 
Philip  had  for  his  own  purposes  surrendered  it,  was  sol¬ 
emnly  announced,  and  again  the  Roman  was  hailed  as 
the  great  liberator.  When  at  the  expiration  of  his  pro¬ 
longed  command  he  took  his  leave  of  Greece  at  Corinth, 
be  gave  them  the  excellent  advice  which  Greeks,  then 
or  since,  have  never  been  inclined  to  take.  He  ended 
his  speech  in  these  words: 


“  Let  their  leaders,  and  the  different  ranks  in  each  state,  and 
the  states  amongst  one  another,  strive  for  union  and  concord. 
So  long  as  they  were  at  one.  neither  king  nor  tyrant  could  be 
strong  enough  to  harm  them.  Disunion  and  distrust  gave  every 
opportunity  to  watchful  enemies.  For  the  party  which  is  worsted 
in  an  intestine  quarrel  will  rather  apply  for  help  to  foreign 
powers  than  yield  to  their  own  countrymen.  He  exhorted  them 
to  guard  and  maintain  by  their  own  exertions  the  liberty  pur¬ 
chased  by  the  arms  of  others,  and  restored  to  them  by  the  good 
faith  of  strangers;  that  so  the  Roman  people  might  feel  that 
they  had  given  freedom  to  men  who  were  worthy  of  it,  and  that 
their  service  had  been  well  bestowed.”— (xxxiv.  49.) 


THE  ROMANS  IN  ASIA. 


1B9 


They  parted  from  him,  says  the  chronicler,  with 
tears,  as  children  from  a  parent;  and  he  was  himself 
so  affected  as  to  be  scarcely  able  to  conclude  his  speech. 
Before  he  left,  he  procured  from  their  gratitude  the 
redemption  from  their  present  masters  of  a  number  of 
those  unfortunate  Romans  who  had  been  sold  as  slaves 
Into  Greece  during  the  Punic  wars,  when  the  stern  sen¬ 
tence  of  their  countrymen  had  refused  to  pay  their 
ransom.*  Twelve  hundred  of  them  were  found  in 
Achaia  alone.  “Judge,  then,”  says  the  historian, 
“how  many,  in  that  proportion,  there  were  likely  to 
have  been  in  all  Greece.”  His  triumph  at  Rome  lasted 
three  days.  It  was  magnificent  with  the  works  of 
Greek  art  which  had  been  captured?  chiefly  from 
Philip;  the  golden  crowns  presented  to  the  liberator 
by  the  several  states — one  hundred  and  fourteen;  the 
captive  princes  and  noble  hostages,  among  them  Deme¬ 
trius,  the  young  son  of  Philip,  and  Armenes,  son  of 
the  tyrant  Nabis  ;  but  the  grandest  feature  in  the  show 
(Livy  evidently  has  the  good  taste  to  think  so)  was  the 
band  of  liberated  Romans,  who,  with  their  heads 
shaven,  in  token  of  recovered  freedom,  followed  the 
triumphant  procession  of  their  deliverer  up  the  hill  of 
the  Capitol. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

THE  ROMANS  IN  ASIA. 

(books  xxxv.— xxxix.  b.c.  193-183.) 

Macedon  had  been  humbled,  and  Rome  was  at 
liberty  to  turn  her  arms  elsewhere.  Antiochus  of  Syria, 


*  See  p.  113. 


140 


LIVY. 


known  as  the  Great,  had  for  some  time  been  extending 
his  conquests  on  the  coasts  of  Asia  Minor,  chiefly  at 
the  expense  of  the  recognized  dominions  of  the  kings 
of  Egypt.  There  was,  in  fact,  an  understanding  be¬ 
tween  him  and  Philip  that  they  were  to  divide  Egypt 
between  them.  The  present  Ptolemy  was  a  mere  child; 
and  the  Romans,  no  doubt  with  their  own  obiects  in 
view,  had  lately  taken  him  under  their  “  protection.” 
If  Antiochus  had  anticipated  their  action  by  joining 
Philip  before  the  fortunes  of  Macedon  were  ruined, 
events  might  very  possibly  have  taken  a  different  turn 
in  the  future;  as  it  was,  he  had  spirit  enough  to  re¬ 
fuse  the  demand  of  Rome  that  he  should  restore  his 
conquest  from  Ptolemy,  but  not  enough  strength  to 
maintain  his  resistance.  When  he  crossed  into  Greece  on 
the  invitation  of  the  iEtolians,  who  had  never  acquiesced 
in  the  Roman  policy,  he  found  Philip  of  Macedon  deaf 
to  all  proposals  of  an  alliance  against  Rome  as  a  com¬ 
mon  enemy — an  alliance  which  was  offered  too  late — 
and  dutifully  siding  with  his  new  allies  and  masters 
against  him.  In  vain  Antiochus  tried  to  make  a  stand 
at  the  old  historic  pass  of  Thermopylae  :  he  had  to 
retire  defeated  from  Greece,  only  to  be  followed  into 
Asia,  as  Hannibal  had  warned  him,  by  the  unrelaxing 
grasp  of  Rome,  “already  affecting  the  empire  of  the 
world;”  to  be  finally  conquered  at  Magnesia  in  the  passes 
of  Mount  Sipylus,  and  reduced  to  accept  humiliating 
terms,  by  another  of  the  great  family  of  the  Scipios, 
Lucius  Cornelius,  known  from  these  compaigns  as 
“  Asiaticus” — the  first  Roman  commander  who  landed 
a  hostile  force  in  Asia.  The  battle  which  sealed  the 
fate  of  Syria  was  fought,  however,  by  his  lieutenants, 
while  Scipio  lay  ill  in  his  tent.  Again,  as  with  the  Car* 
tiiae'ini^ns  §t  Zama,  the  elephants  brought  into  action 


THE  ROMANS  IN  ASIA . 


141 


by  the  Syrians  turned  on  their  own  ranks  and  broke 
their  formation,  and  their  loss  at  Magnesia  is  estima¬ 
ted  at  50,000  men. 

This  war  with  Antiochus  introduces  us  once  more 
to  the  hero  of  the  Punic  wars.  The  faction  at  Car¬ 
thage  which  had  always  been  opposed  to  Hannibal  and 
his  policy  now  denounced  him  to  the  Romans  as  en¬ 
gaged  in  negotiations  with  Antiochus.  They  at  once 
sent  to  Carthage  to  complain,  no  doubt  intending  to 
demand  his  extradition.  One  man  at  Rome,  to  his 
great  honor,  protested  against  the  course  taken:  it  was 
Scipio,  Hannibal’s  old  antagonist,  who  best  knew  his 
worth.  He  said  it  was  “unworthy  of  the  dignity  of  the 
Roman  people  to  listen  to  party  accusations  against 
such  a  man.”  Hannibal  did  not  wait  the  result:  he 
fled  at  once  to  the  court  of  Antiochus,  which  seems  to 
imply  that  the  report  of  his  intentions  was  not  without 
foundation.  He  was  warmly  received;  but  he  could 
not  persuade  the  Syrian  to  adopt  his  own  vigorous 
policy,  and  carry  the  war  at  once  into  Italy  rather  than 
await  the  Romans  in  Greece.  Antiochus  gave  him  a 
naval  command,  for  which  he  was  probably  unsuited, 
and  in  which  he  was  unsuccessful. 

A  passage  which  our  annalist  quotes  from  an  earlier 
Roman  historian,  Claudius  Quadrigarius  *  (to  whom, 
however,  he  never  seems  to  give  much  credit  as  an  au¬ 
thority),  describes  a  singular  interview  as  having  taken 
place  about  this  time  between  Hannibal  and  Scipio 
Africanus.  The  latter  was,  according  to  Claudius,  one 
of  the  envoys  sent  from  Roma  to  Antiochus.  He  and 
Hannibal  met  at  Ephesus,  where  they  had  a  conversa¬ 
tion  which  Claudius  thus  recorded  : 


*  He  wrote  about  b.c.  100.  We  have  only  some  scattered 
fragments  of  his  history. 


143 


LIVY. 


“  Scipio  asked  Hannibal,  whom  he  held  to  be  the  greatest  gen¬ 
eral  ?  He  replied,  *  Alexander,  king  of  Macedon  ;  because  he 
defeated  enormous  armies  with  a  small  force,  and  had  traversed 
the  remotest  regions,  which  few  men  could  hope  even  to  get  a 
sight  of.’  When  he  was  asked  whom  he  would  place  second, 
he  said,  ‘Pyrrhus  ;  he  had  first  taught  the  laying  out  a  camp: 
and  besides  this,  no  man  ever  showed  better  judgment  in 
choosing  his  ground  and  placing  his  outposts.  He  had  also  such 
tact  in  winning  men  to  himself,  that  the  nations  of  Italy  preferred 
to  be  governed  by  a  foreign  ruler,  rather  than  by  the  Roman 
people  who  had  stood  at  their  head  so  long.’  When  he  was 
pressed  further  as  to  whom  he  considered  to  be  third,  he  replied, 

*  Himself,  unquestionably.’  Then  Scipio  laughed,  and  said, 

•  What  would  you  have  said  if  you  had  conquered  me?  ’  ‘  In  that 
case,’  he  replied,  ‘1  should  have  stood  before  Alexander, 
and  before  Pyrrhus,  and  all  other  commanders.’  The  Punic 
astuteness  displayed  in  the  answer,  and  the  unexpected  turn 
of  the  compliment,  gratified  Scipio  highly,  as  though  Hannibal 
had  purposely  omitted  him  from  the  list  of  generals,  as  not  ad¬ 
mitting  of  comparison  with  them.” — (xxxv*  14.) 

One  article  in  the  peace  made  with  Antiochus  was  a 
disgrace  to  the  Roman  name.  It  was  stipulated  (though 
Livy  does  not  mention  the  fact)  that  he  should  surren¬ 
der  Hannibal  to  his  implacable  enemies  Their  victim 
escaped,  and  took  refuge  with  Prusias,  king  of  Bithy- 
nia.  Thither  also  Roman  vengeance  followed  him  in 
the  person  of  Flamininus,  who  was  determined  to  rid 
Rome  of  him  by  any  means.  Hannibal  anticipated  the 
treachery  of  his  host,  who  had  stationed  soldiers  at  the 
doors  of  his  lodging. 

‘  He  had  always  anticipated  some  such  end  to  his  life;  both 
because  he  knew  the  unrelenting  hatred  the  Romans  bore  him, 

and  because  he  had  little  faith  in  the  honor  of  princes . 

He  asked  a  slave  for  the  poison  which  he  had  for  some  time 
kept  ready  for  such  an  emergency.  ‘  Let  us  free  Rome  from 
this  anxiety,  ’  said  he,  ‘  since  they  think  it  long  to  wait  for  an 
old  man’s  death.  The  triumph  which  Flamininus  will  win  over 
an  unarmed  and  aged  man  is  neither  great  nor  glorious.  Verily, 


THE  ROMANS  IN  ASIA. 


148 


this  moment  bears  witness  that  the  character  of  the  Romaii 
people  has  somwhat  changed.  Their  fathers,  when  King  Pyr¬ 
rhus,  an  armed  enemy,  lay  camped  in  Italy,  forewarned  him  to 
beware  of  poison.  These  present  men  have  sent  one  of  their 
consular^  on  such  an  errand  as  this, — to  ux*ge  Prusias  to  the  base 
murder  o  f  his  guest.  Then,  launching  execrations  against  Pru¬ 
sias  and  his  kingdom,  and  calling  on  the  gods  to  witness  his 
breach  <.f  faith  and  hospitality,  he  swallowed  the  draught.  Such 
was  the  end  of  Hannibal.”— -(xxxix.  52.) 

The  Roman  historian,  writing  what  was  deliberately 
intended  as  a  chronicle  of  Romo's  greatness,  could  not 
well  speak  more  plainly  of  her  behavior  to  her  great 
antagonist.  The  man  who,  spite  of  all  his  intensely 
Roman  feeling,  is  catholic  in  his  admiration  of  all  that 
is  noble,  and  scorn  of  what  is  mean  ana  oase — and  this 
is  Livy’s  great  praise — could  find  it  in  his  conscience 
to  say  no  less.  Without  excusing  it,  without  openly 
reproving  it,  except  through  the  mouth  of  the  Cartha¬ 
ginian,  he  drops  the  veil  over  this  blotted  page  in  the 
history  of  his  country. 

In  the  very  same  year,  b.c.  183,  there  died  at  Rome 
Hannibal’s  great  antagonist — it  is  hard  to  say  his  con¬ 
queror — Scipio  “  of  Africa.”  There  was  a  set  made 
against  the  house  of  the  Scipios,  the  motives  of  which, 
and  its  justice  or  injustice,  would  require  a  history  of 
Roman  political  factions  to  explain.  The  hero  of  Zama 
was  accused,  wrongfully  or  otherwise,  of  peculation 
and  embezzlement  during  his  years  of  command.  He 
met  the  charge  with  scorn;  called  for  his  account-books, 
it  was  said,  and  indignantly  tore  them  up  in  the  face  of 
his  accusers. 

% 

**  When  called  upon  for  his  defence,  he  strode  through  the 
crowd  up  to  the  Rostra,  escorted  by  a  large  body  of  per¬ 
sonal  friends  and  dependants;  and  when  he  had  obtained 
silence,  he  said—  ‘  This  is  the  day,  tribunes  and  people  of 


144 


LIVY. 


Rome,  on  which  t  fought  9&hnibal  and  the  Carthaginians  in  a 
great  battle  with  happy  iah'd  successful  results.  Wherefore, 
since  to-day  it  is  but  right  to  pause  from  strife  and  quarrel,  I 
Bhall  go  hence  straight  td  the  Capitol,  to  do  reverence  to  Jupiter, 
best  and  greatest,  to  juhd  and  Minerva,  and  all  the  other  powers 
who  guard  oiir  citadel!  and  t  shall  give  them  thanks  that  on  this 
day,  and  on  many  a  day  besides,  they  bestowed  on  me  the  spirit 
and  the  power  to  serve  the  State.  Do  you,  Romans,  all  who  con¬ 
veniently  may.  go  with  me,  and  pray  the  gods  that  you  may 
ever  have  leaders  like  unto  hie  5  Since,  as  from  my  seventeenth 
year  to  my  old  age  your  award  Of  honors  was  ever  in  advance  of 
my  years,  so  no  honor  was  ever  paid  me  by  you  that  I  had  not 
first  earned  by  good  service.’  From  the  Rostra  he  moved  on  to 
the  Capitol.  At  once  the  whole  assemblage  turned  and  followed 
him,  until  at  last  even  the  clerks  and  bailiffs  deserted  the  magis¬ 
trates.  and  not  a  man  was  left  with  them  but  a  mob  of  slaves, 
and  tho  crier  of  the  court  who  summoned  defendants.  Accom¬ 
panied  by  the  people,  he  visited  all  the  temples  not  only  in  the 
Capitol,  but  throughout  the  city.  That  day  the  popularity  of 
Scipio  rose  almost  higher,  and  his  real  greatness  was  more 
strongly  felt,  than  when  he  rode  through  the  city  at  his  triumpn 
over  Syphax  and  the  Carthaginians.  (xxxviii.  52.) 

But,  as  Livy  puts  it,  “that  day  was  the  last  bright 
one  that  dawned  for  Publius  Scipio.”  His  enemies  still 
insisted  on  his  being  brought  to  trial,  and  he  as  steadily 
refused  to  meet  them.  One  of  the  tribunes,  Tiberius 
Gracchus,  though  a  personal  enemy,  would  not  join  his 
colleagues  in  the  act  of  impeachment. 

“  Shall  the  man  who  tamed  Africa  be  trampled  on  by  you  ? 
Was  it  for  this  he  routed  and  overthrew  four  of  the  best  generals 
of  Carthage  and  four  of  her  armies  in  Spain?  for  this  that 
he  took  Syphax  prisoner,  conquered  Hannibal,  made  Carthage 
our  vassal,  drove  Antiochus  beyond  the  Taurus  (for  his  brother 
Lucius  admitted  him  to  a  share  in  this  glory)— to  fall  a  victim 
here  to  you  two  Petillii— that  you  should  win  renown  for  your¬ 
selves  on  Scipio?  Shall  no  services  of  his  own,  no  honors  be¬ 
stowed  by  you,  ever  make  the  retirement  of  a  hero  safe— nay, 
sacred— in  your  eyes?  The  old  age  of  such  men,  if  it  cannot 
command  your  veneration,  should  surely  claim  your  forbear¬ 
ance.”— (xxxviii.  53.) 


TEE  ROMANS  IN  ASIA. 


145 


Even  the  accusers,  we  are  told,  were  moved  by  these 
noble  words,  and  the  senate  thanked  the  speaker  “that 
he  had  sacrificed  his  private  enmity  to  his  public  duty.” 
The  prosecution  was  dropped. 

“  From  that  time  men  spoke  no  more  of  Afrioanus.  He  spent 
the  rest  of  his  life  at  Liternum,*  without  a  regret  for  Rome. 
They  say  that  when  dying  he  gave  instructions  that  he  should 
be  buried  there,  and  a  monument  there  raised  to  him,  that  his 
last  obsequies  should  not  take  place  amongst  his  ungrateful  fel¬ 
low-citizens.  A  man  worthy  of  all  memory,  yet  rather  from  his 
conduct  in  war  than  in  peace.”— (xxxviii.  53.) 

The  enemies  of  the  house  were  not  satisfied  without 
the  impeachment  of  his  brother,  Lucius  “of  Asia.” 
The  charge  brought  against  him  was  that  of  receiving 
bribes  from  Antiochus  to  grant  him  too  favorable  con¬ 
ditions  of  peace.  He  also  is  represented  as  meeting  the 
accusation  with  a  lofty  contempt.  But  he  was  con¬ 
demned,  and  his  property  confiscated  to  pay  the  claims 
made  upon  him.  He  was  even  imprisoned  for  a  while, 
but  soon  set  at  liberty. 

The  case  of  the  Scipios  is  only  one  of  many  indica¬ 
tions  in  the  author’s  pages  that  there  was  springing  up 
at  Rome  an  oligarchy  of  wealth,  of  a  character  very 
different  from  that  of  the  old  patrician  nobility  of 
earlier  and  simpler  times.  Rome  had  not  only  enlarged 
her  boundaries  by  her  conquests;  she  had  opened  a  field 
in  which  her  successful  generals  could  enrich  them¬ 
selves  and  their  families.  The  “grave  and  severe”  life 
which  had  been  the  pride  of  the  Roman  was  fast  decay¬ 
ing:  he  was  beginning  to  learn,  from  Greece  and  from 
the  East,  the  lessons  of  self-indulgence  and  luxury.  A 

*  Now  Torre  di  Patria,  The  word  “  Patria"  seems  to  cor¬ 
roborate  the  story  of  ggipiq  having  made  it  his  “  country ’’ 
instead  of  ftome, 


i46 


LIVY. 


pernicious  effect  is  said  to  liave  been  produced  by  the 
triumph  of  Manlius  V ulso,  in  honor  of  his  defeat  of  the 
Asiatic  Gauls  (the  Gallo-Graeci,  or  Galatians)  in  the  year 
following  the  defeat  of  Antioclius.  The  display  of 
wealth  in  his  procession  was  such  as  had  never  yet  been 
seen  at  Rome.  “Two  hundred  golden  crowns,”  and 
silver  and  gold  in  every  form,  coined  and  uncoined, 
made  part  of  his  show,  and  he  distributed  ostentatious 
largesses  on  the  occasion  to  his  soldiery.  He  was  ac¬ 
cused  of  having  tolerated  brigandage  and  licentiousness 
of  every  kind  amongst  them  while  in  the  East:  and,  in 
fact,  he  had  delayed  for  some  time  his  demand  for  a 
triumph,  in  fear  of  public  impeachment. 

“  The  taint  of  foreign  luxury  was  imported  into  the  city  by  the 
return  of  the  army  from  Asia.  They  first  introduced  into  Rome 
couches  of  gilded  bronze,  costly  tapestry,  hangings,  and  other 
textile  fabrics;  and,  what  was  then  considered  extravagant  in 
furniture,  claw-tables  and  brackets.  Then  first  female  harpists 
and  tambourine-players,  and  the  jests  of  professional  buffoons, 
came  into  fashion  at  entertainments:  the  entertainments  them¬ 
selves  were  given  with  more  care  and  cost.  The  cook— who  in 
old  times  was  one  of  the  lowest  of  the  slaves  in  value  and  in  im¬ 
portance— began  to  rise  in  price;  and  what  had  been  a  mere 
servile  office  came  to  be  considered  a  profession.  Yet  what  was 
seen  then  were  only  the  germs  of  that  luxury  which  was  soon  to 
spring  up.”— (xxxix.  6.) 

One  powerful  voice  was  heard  declaiming  from  time  to 
time  against  this  growing  corruption  of  morals.  Mar¬ 
cus  Portius  Cato,  whether  as  praetor,  consul,  or  censor, 
never  ceased  to  urge  a  return  to  the  old  simpler  life  of 
Rome — with  little  effect.  It  is  Livy’s  voice,  too,  as  well 
as  Cato’s,  which  we  hear  in  that  long  and  vigorous 
declamation  against  the  repeal  of  the  Oppian  sumptuary 
law,  meant  to  repress  the  extravagances  of  women.* 


*  Book  xxxiv.  ch.  2. 


THE  ROMANS  IN  ASIA. 


147 


But  while  he  rebukes  the  one  sex  for  their  display  in 
dress  and  equipages,  he  does  not  spare  the  other:  while 
he  tells  the  women  that  “she  who  begins  to  be  ashamed 
of  what  she  ought  not  to  be  ashamed  of,  will  soon  begin 
not  to  be  ashamed  of  what  she  ought;” — he  warns  the 
men  against  “  the  two  great  and  opposite  vices  under 
which  Rome  was  suffering — avarice  and  luxury,  which 
are  the  ruin  of  all  great  commonwealths;”  he  tells  them 
that  “of  all  kinds  of  shame,  the  worst  is  the  being 
ashamed  of  frugality  and  poverty;”  and  he  deplores  the 
day  when  works  of  art  came  in  from  Syracuse  to  out¬ 
shine  “the  earthen  images  of  their  Roman  gods,”  and 
royal  treasures  found  their  way  to  Rome  from  Greece 
and  Asia,  which  made  his  countrymen  ‘  *  rather  captives 
than  captors.” 

Cato  did  not  speak  without  reason  of  the  influence  of 
“foreign  superstitions”  on  the  female  mind  at  Rome. 
Addiction  to  sorcery,  to  incantations,  to  unhallowed 
orgies,  and  even  to  secret  poisoning,  was  a  charge 
brought  from  time  to  time  against  Roman  matrons;  and 
thougli  in  all  probability  exaggerated  by  panic,  as  all 
such  charges  commonly  are,  it  must  have  rested  on  some 
ground  of  truth.  There  had  been  one  of  these  panics 
at  the  termination  of  the  Latin  War  (b.c.  335),  which 
was,  according  to  Livy,  the  first  time  such  practices 
were  discovered  at  Rome.*  The  account  reads  very 
much  like  one  of  the  modern  epidemics  of  witchcraft 
in  our  own  country  or  in  New  England.  Twenty 
matrons  are  first  accused  and  apprehended  on  the  evi¬ 
dence  of  a  maid-servant;  they  in  turn  give  information 
against  others;  and  a  hundred  and  twenty  are  at  last 
convicted  and  put  to  death.  But  in  the  years  which 


*  Book  viii.  ch.  18. 


148 


LIVY. 


followed  the  Roman  victories  in  Greece  and  Asia,  the 
panic  and  the  consequent  proceedings  were  of  a  far 
more  terrible  nature.  The  worship  of  Cybele,  with  all 
its  abominable  rites,  had  been  introduced  from  Asia, 
in  compliance  with  popular  demand,  in  the  last  years 
of  the  war  with  Hannibal,  because  an  old  prophecy  had 
been  found — or  was  said  to  have  been  found — in  the 
Sibylline  books,  that  “when  a  foreign  enemy  should 
carry  war  into  Italy,  he  should  be  conquered  and  ex¬ 
pelled,  if  the  Mother  of  the  Gods  were  carried  to 
Rome.”  She  had  been  brought  accordingly,  in  -solemn 
state,  from  Pessinus  in  Phrygia — a  rough  stone,  which 
the  native  priests  warranted  to  be  the  veritable  Mother 
— which  young  Publius  Scipio,  the  popular  favorite, 
as  “the  most  blameless  man  in  the  state,”  was  com¬ 
missioned  to  escort.  It  had  been  received  by  a  depu¬ 
tation  of  matrons  of  noble  birth,  and  set  up  in  the 
temple  of  Victory.  Chaldaean  astrologers  were  natural¬ 
ized  in  the  city,  and  largely  consulted.  Certain  rites 
connected  with  the  worship  of  Bacchus  had  also  been 
introduced  by  an  Etrurian  priest,  which  led  to  the 
vilest  excesses.  The  measures  taken  by  the  authorities 
to  cut  out  the  cancer  from  the  national  life  of  Rome 
certainly  did  not  err  on  the  side  of  leniency.  Two 
hundred  women  were  convicted  of  poisoning  their 
husbands:  “seven  thousand  of  both  sexes”  were  con¬ 
demned,  most  of  them  probably  to  death,  as  members 
of  a  secret  association  of  the  worst  description;*  and 
a  few  years  afterwards,  three  thousand  more  were  con¬ 
demned  for  similar  practices,  and  the  wife  of  the  con¬ 
sul  Piso  was  executed  for  poisoning  her  husband. 
Rqt  when  we  read  that  the  public  authorities  “offered 


*  p,cf  J8@,  Book  xxxix,  sh-  17i 


THE  FALL  OF  MACEDON. 


14$ 


a  reward  to  any  informer  who  should  bring  any  of  the 
guilty  parties  before  them,  or  denounce  any  one  in  his 
absence,” — that  “a  panic  seized  the  whole  senate” — 
that  so  many  (led  in  terror  from  the  city  as  almost  to 
put  a  stop  to  public  business — that  many  of  those  who 
were  accused  committed  suicide  at  once — and  that  the 
prisoners,  “  when  brought  before  the  consuls,  all  con¬ 
fessed  their  guilt,  and  did  not  give  them  the  trouble 
of  a  trial,” — no  one  who  has  read  the  history  of  such 
scenes  even  in  times  which  are  considered  more  en¬ 
lightened,  can  doubt  but  that  here  also  the  innocent 
suffered  in  greater  numbers  than  the  guilty. 

CHAPTER  XII. 

THE  FALL  OF  MACEDON. 

(books  xxxix.— xlv.  b.c.  190-167.) 

Philip  of  Macedon  had  succumbed  to  the  Roman 
arms;  but  he  was  neither  humbled  by  his  defeat  nor 
satisfied  with  the  terms  of  peace.  Though  the  Romans 
had  taken  nothing  for  themselves,  they  had  taken  nearly 
everything  from  him.  They  had  “freed”  all  the 
smaller  states  and  towns  which  had  so  long  looked  to 
Philip  as  their  lord  and  master,  and  had  materially 
increased  the  domains  of  the  kings  of  Pergamus,  and 
thus  raised  to.  importance  by  the  side  of  Macedon  a 
rival  of  whom  he  had  always  been  jealous.  Besides 
this,  Philip  found  himself  now  somewhat  in  the  case  of 
the  wounded  lion  with  whom  all  the  meaner  beasts  take 
liberties  in  his  distress.  Towns  over  which  he  under¬ 
stood  his  rights  to  have  been  reserved  repudiated  his 
allegiance;  disputes  arose  between  him  and  his  neigh- 


150 


LIVY. 


bors,  and  in  every  case  the  appeal  was  to  Rome  as  the 
general  referee  and  public  “  liberator.”  Livy  puts  the 
state  of  the  case  shrewdly  enough : 

“  The  moment  the  idea  spread  among  the  different  states 
which  bordered  on  Macedonia  that  accusations  and  complaints 
against  Philip  were  listened  to  by  the  Romans  with  attention,  a 
great  many  found  it  worth  their  while  to  complain.  Each  town 
and  tribe  on  their  own  particular  account,  and  even  individuals 
in  their  own  private  interest  (for  all  found  the  Macedonian  a  dan¬ 
gerous  neighbor),  came  to  Rome  either  in  the  hope  of  getting  their 
grievances  redressed,  or  at  least  to  draw  some  solace  from  com¬ 
plaining  of  them.”— (xxxix.  46.) 

It  is  easy  to  imagine  how  intolerable  such  a  state  of 
things  must  have  become  to  a  prince  of  Philip’s  tem¬ 
perament,  and  who  had  recently  held  such  a  different 
position.  Roman  commissions  went  here  and  there 
about  Greece,  hearing  complaints  and  making  inquiries, 
which,  however  honestly  meant,  must  have  chafed 
and  humiliated  the  Macedonian  beyond  endurance. 
One  of  these  commissions  was  held  at  Tempe  in  Thes¬ 
saly,  where  the  deputies  of  various  aggrieved  commu¬ 
nities  appeared,  says  the  annalist,  “  in  the  unmistakable 
guise  of  accusers,”  while  Philip  sat  there  “like  a  pris¬ 
oner  on  trial,”  before  the  high  and  mighty  representa¬ 
tives  of  Rome.  The  dispute  between  him  and  the 
Thessalians,  however  important  to  them,  has  little  in¬ 
terest  now  for  us;  the  Roman  commissioners  postponed 
their  decision ;  but  Philip  saw,  or  thought  he  saw,  that 
he  should  get  scant  justice  from  such  a  court,  and  that 
the  Romans  were  determined  to  crush  him  entirely. 
Their  policy  and  his  were  in  fact  incompatible.  He 
took  his  resolution,  and  made  his  preparations  in  quiet; 
but  in  order  to  gain  time,  he  sent  his  younger  son 
Demetrius  to  Rome,  to  try  to  make  his  peace  there  for 


THE  FALL  OF  MACE  DON. 


151 


the  present.  Demetrius,  it  will  be  remembered,  had 
been  given  up  by  his  father  as  a  hostage  to  the  Romans, 
and  after  figuring  in  the  train  of  Flamininus  at  his 
triumph,  had  spent  some  time  in  the  city  in  a  sort  of 
honorable  safe  custody.  He  seems  to  have  won  the 
esteem  of  his  hosts — possibly  had  adopted  some  Roman 
tastes  and  habits;  at  any  rate,  the  Roman  senate 
treated  him  with  the  greatest  courtesy,  assured  him 
of  their  desire  to  do  justice  to  all,  and  begged  him  to 
let  his  father  understand  “that  all  questions  between 
him  and  the  Roman  people  might  be  considered  settled, 
owing  to  the  good  offices  of  his  son.” 

The  message  was  fatal  to  the  young  prince.  His  elder 
brother  Perseus,  jealous  at  finding  the  popularity  of 
Demetrius  greater  than  his  own,  slandered  him  to  his 
father  as  being  a  Roman  at  heart,  and  a  traitor  to  the 
interests  of  Philip  and  Macedon.  “The  Romans,  no 
doubt,  intended  to  raise  their  protege  to  the  throne; 
would  Macedonia  accept  a  king  from  the  hands  of 
Rome?  ”  He  even  accused  Demetrius  of  designing  his 
father’s  murder.  Philip  listened  too  easily,  and  con¬ 
sented  to  his  being  put  to  death.  From  that  moment 
he  never  knew  a  happy  hour.  He  died  two  years  after¬ 
wards, — chiefly,  as  the  annalist  thinks,  “of  regret  for 
his  lost  son,  and  remorse  for  his  own  cruelty;  ”  for  the 
innocence  of  Demetrius  was  established  when  too  late. 

“  The  seeds  of  the  new  war  with  Rome  were  sown,” 
says  Livy,  “by  Philip.  They  bore  their  fruit  under 
his  successor  Perseus, — a  prince  with  many  vigorous 
qualities,  but  lacking  the  genius  of  his  father.  The 
Roman  senate,  at  his  request,  acknowledged  him  as 
king  and  “their  good  friend,”  with  diplomatic  polite¬ 
ness;  but  they  mistrusted  him  from  the  first.  He 
took  an  early  opportunity  of  opening  negotiations  with 


152 


LIVY. 


their  old  enemies  of  Carthage.  A  mysterious  embassy 
from  him  (of  which  it  may  be  presumed  very  little  was 
known,  since  Livy  dismisses  it  in  two  lines)  was  said  to 
have  been  admitted  to  an  audience  by  the  Carthaginian 
senate  “at  night,  in  the  temple  of  iEsculapius:”  but 
it  does  not  appear  to  have  had  any  result.  He  took 
pains  to  win  the  affections  of  the  various  Creek  states, 
and  held  a  kind  of  review  of  the  Macedonian  army  in 
the  sacred  neighborhood  of  Delphi — the  point  where 
Creek  religious  tradition  and  national  reverence  cen¬ 
tered.  Rome,  on  her  part,  was  renewing  her  alliance 
with  young  Ptolemy  of  Egypt,  and  receiving  graciously 
assurances  of  goodwill,  and  apologies  for  being  some¬ 
what  dilatory  in  paying  his  tribute,  from  Antiochus  of 
Syria,  surnamed  Epiphanes — “the  Brilliant” — son  of 
their  late  antagonist.  He  too  had  been  a  hostage  at 
Rome,  and  had  conceived  a  respect  for  Roman  charac¬ 
ter,  or  at  least  for  Roman  power,  and  was  glad  to  be  on 
the  side  of  the  strongest  in  the  coming  issue.  Eumenes 
of  Pergamus  came  in  person  to  Rome,  and  warned  the 
senate  there  of  the  preparations — corn,  money,  foreign 
mercenaries  in  addition  to  the  national  force  of  Mace¬ 
donia — which  Perseus  was  getting  together  in  prospect 
of  the  coming  struggle.  Eumenes  even  hinted,  accord¬ 
ing  to  Livy’s  version  of  his  oration,  at  a  possible  inva¬ 
sion  of  Italy.  Perseus  also  had  his  envoys  at  Rome; 
and  the  annalist,  intentionally  or  otherwise,  puts  into 
the  mouth  of  their  spokesman  a  reply  which  would 
show  that  there  was  a  true  imperial  spirit  in  these  Mace¬ 
donian  kings. 

“  His  sovereign,  he  said,  was  desirous— nay,  most  anxious— 
that  they  should  give  credit  to  his  assertion,  in  answer  to  such 
charges,  that  he  had  shown  no  hostility  to  Rome  in  word  or  deed ; 
but,  if  he  saw  them  determinedly  bent  on  finding  some  pretext 


TEE  FALL  OF  MACED  OK 


153 


for  war,  he  could  take  his  own  part  with  firmness  and  spirit. 
War  was  a  game  open  to  all,  and  the  result  of  an  appeal  to  arms 
was  what  no  man  could  foretell.” — (xlii.  14.) 

There  was  a  barbaric  grandeur  in  the  answer,  given 
in  such  a  presence;  but  if  the  account  before  us  be 
true,  the  king  was  equally  barbaric  in  his  readiness  to 
commit  any  kind  of  political  murder.  He  tried  to  have 
Eumenes  assassinated  while  sacrificing  at  Delphi,  and 
very  nearly  succeeded.  He  next  made  an  attempt  to 
get  the  Roman  ambassador  in  Greece  poisoned  in  his 
apartments;  and  the  discovery,  real  or  pretended,  of 
this  attempt,  seems  to  have  filled  up  the  cup  of  his 
iniquities  in  the  eyes  of  Rome.  Envoys  were  sent  to 
demand  satisfaction,  and  Perseus  received  and  dis¬ 
missed  them,  it  was  alleged,  with  a  studied  contempt, 
and  even  violent  language,  not  according  them  even 
the  ordinary  hospitalities  due  to  their  office.  War 
was  resolved  upon,  and  the  preparations  for  it  were  on 
a  scale  commensurate  with  its  importance;  for  the 
resources  of  Macedonia  under  Perseus  were  probably 
double  what  they  had  been  under  his  father  Philip. 
The  Third  Macedonian  War,  as  it  is  commonly  called, 
has  scarcely  been  allowed  its  due  weight  in  history. 
Had  Macedonia  been  supported,  as  Perseus  hoped  to 
have  been,  by  the  Asiatic  princes,  or  by  the  states  of 
Greece,  the  Romans  might  have  been  driven  back  upon 
Italy.  But  even  the  “royal  marriages”  on  which  Per¬ 
seus  had  built  his  hopes— giving  his  sister  to  Prusias  of 
Bithynia,  and  himself  taking  to  wife  a  daughter  of  Se- 
leucus  (Philopator)  of  Syria — failed  to  afford  him  the 
support  on  which  he  calculated.  Prusias — that  wretched 
time-server  who  had  lent  himself  to  the  assassination  of 
Hannibal— looked  on  and  waited  the  event;  Seleucus 
was  dead;  aod  brother  successor,  Afitioc!in§- 


154 


LIVY ; 


“the  Brilliant,”  cared  for  his  own  interests,  and  not 
those  of  Macedonia,  and  was  ready  to  take  advantage 
of  the  Homans  being  occupied  elsewhere  to  lay  his  hands 
on  Egypt. 

Perseus  stood  almost  alone  against  Rome;  Cotys,  chief 
of  the  Odrysians,  and  ruler  of  all  Eastern  Thrace,  fur¬ 
nished  him  with  some  of  the  best  cavalry  of  the  age, 
who  did  him  good  and  gallant  service;  but,  with  this 
exception  and  a  small  Illyrian  contingent,  Macedonia 
had  to  fight  single-handed. 

Livy  notes  some  significant  incidents  in  the  enrol¬ 
ment  at  Rome  of  soldiers  for  the  campaign.  Much  is 
implied  in  the  apparently  casual  statement  that  “  many 
veteran  centurions  and  soldiers  volunteered  for  the  ser¬ 
vice,  because  they  saw  that  men  who  had  served  in  the 
former  Macedonian  war,  or  against  Antiochus  in  Syria, 
had  come  home  rich”*  The  Roman  legionary  was  no 
longer  serving  only  for  patriotism  or  for  glory.  Others 
protested  against  being  called  upon  to  serve  again  when 
past  the  usual  age,  and  asserted  the  right  which  was 
claimed,  and  appears  to  have  been  conceded,  during  the 
Samnite  wars,f  but  which,  like  other  popular  rights, 
seems  to  have  fallen  into  practical  abeyance,  of  not 
being  required  to  serve  in  an  inferior  rank  to  that  which 
they  held  in  their  last  campaign.  The  hard  service 
which  a  Roman  soldier  sometimes  went  through  is 
strikingly  set  forth  in  the  protest  of  an  old  officer,  one 
Spurius  Ligustinus.  It  gives  us  also  a  little  glimpse 
into  the  domestic  life,  of  which  the  pages  of  the  an¬ 
nalist,  to  our  great  loss,  supply  so  little  illustration. 
The  simple  gossip  of  the  veteran’s  story  has  more  in- 


*  Book  xlii.  cli.  52. 
t  See  p.  78. 


THE  FALL  OF  MACEDOF 


166 


terest  Tor  us  moderns  than  the  intrigues  of  Greeks  and 
Asiatics,  and  the  “little  wars”  of  Rome  with  the  vari¬ 
ous  tribes  of  Spain  and  Gaul,  which  take  up  so  much 
of  these  later  Annals.  He  was  of  the  old  Sabine  stock 
— the  muscle  and  sinews  of  the  Roman  commonwealth. 

“I  am  a  Sabine,  from  Crustumina.  My  father  left  me  some 
acres  of  land,  and  a  little  cottage,  in  which  I  was  born  and 
brought  up,  and  there  I  live  to  this  day.  As  soon  as  I  was  old 
enough,  my  father  gave  me  for  a  wife  his  brother’s  daughter, 
who  brought  with  her  no  dowry  beyond  her  free  birth  and  her 
modesty,  and  the  fruitfulness  which  might  have  contented  a  far 
richer  establishment.  Six  sons  we  have,  and  two  daughters — 
botk  married.  Four  of  my  sons  are  grown  to  manhood,  two 
are  still  youths.  I  first  entered  the  service  twenty-nine  years 
ago.  I  served  as  a  private  soldier  for  two  years  against  King 
Philip,  in  the  army  which  first  landed  in  Macedonia;  in  the  third 
year  Quinctius  Flaminius  gave  me  the  command  of  the  tenth 
company  of  Hastati,  as  a  reward  for  good  service.  When  we  had 
beaten  Philip  and  the  Macedonians,  and  were  brought  home  and 
disbanded,  I  volunteered  again  at  once,  and  went  with  Marcus 
Porcius  (Cato)  into  Spain.  That  no  commander  living  was  a 
keener  observer  and  judge  of  a  soldier’s  merit,  is  what  all  know 
who  have  served  for  any  time  under  him  and  other  generals.^ 
He  selected  me  to  command  the  first  company  of  Hastati.  A 
third  time  I  volunteered  into  the  army  that  was  sent  against  the 
iEtolians  and  Antiochus;  I  was  given  by  Acilius  the  first  com¬ 
pany  of  Principes.*  When  Antiochus  was  repulsed,  and  the 
iEtolians  reduced,  we  were  brought  back  to  Italy.  Then  I  served 
two  years  in  the  annual  levies.  Then  I  made  two  campaigns  in 
Spain.  I  was  brought  home  by  Flaccus  amongst  others  whom 
he  selected  for  distinguished  services  to  attend  his  triumph:  at 
the  request  of  the  praetor  Gracchus,  I  went  with  him  into  his 
province.  Four  times  within  a  few  years  I  was  made  senior  regi¬ 
mental  officer;  four -and- thirty  times  I  have  received  good-service 
rewards  from  my  commanding  officers;  I  have  won  six  civic 
crowns  for  saving  comrades’  lives;  I  have  served  twenty-two  years 
in  the  army,  and  I  am  above  fifty  years  old.  Even  if  I  had  not 


*  These  were  gradual  steps  in  rank:  the  last  was  the  chief  cen 
turion. 


i56 


LIVY. 

yet  served  my  full  time,  and  if  my  age  did  not  entitle  me  to  ex¬ 
emption,  still,  seeing  that  I  can  give  you  four  soldiers  in  place  of 
one,  consul  and  fellow-citizens,  I  might  fairly  ask  for  my  dis¬ 
charge.  But  I  wish  you  to  understand  that  what  I  have  said  is 
simply  to  do  myself  justice:  for  my  part,  as  long  as  any  one  who 
has  the  levying  of  troops  thinks  me  fit  to  fight  I  am  never  going 
to  excuse  myself.  The  chiefs  may  give  me  what  rank  they  think 
I  deserve,— they  have  the  ordering  of  that.  I  shall  do  my  best 
that  no  one  in  the  army  ranks  before  me  in  doing  his  duty— as 
I  always  have  done;  and  that  my  commanding  officers  and  all 
who  have  served  with  me  can  witness.”— (xlii.  34.) 

He  ended  by  begging  bis  fellow-soldiers  not  to  stand 
upon  their  strict  privileges,  but  take  service  at  once. 
He  was  introduced  into  the  senate,  and  received  a  vote 
of  thanks;  and  was  at  once  appointed  to  one  of  the  high¬ 
est  regimental  commands. 

Perseus,  we  are  told,  was  surprised,  or  affected  so  to 
be,  at  the  prompt  measures  taken  by  the  Romans.  He 
sent  to  offer  satisfaction  for  any  complaints  which  could 
be  shown  to  be  well  grounded.  The  haughty  reply  of 
the  senate  was  that  Licinius  the  consul  would  shortly 
be  in  Macedonia  with  his  army,  and  the  king  could 
explain  himself  to  him.  He  tried  further  negotiations; 
but  the  final  result  was  that  his  envoys  were  ordered 
“  to  quit  Rome  at  once,  and  Italy  within  thirty  days.” 

The  war  lasted  four  years.  In  the  first  campaign  the 
Romans  had  an  incompetent  commander  in  the  consul 
Licinius,  and  the  splendid  Thracian  cavalry  were  irre¬ 
sistible  in  their  sweeping  charges.  The  Romans  were 
defeated  in  a  great  battle,  and  Perseus  gladly  took  the 
opportunity  of  offering  to  make  peace  on  the  terms  that 
had  been  conceded  to  his  father  Philip.  But  the 
Romans  had  the  merit  (or,  as  Dr.  Arnold  seems  to 
think  it,  the  fault  *)  of  never  confessing  a  defeat.  They 


*  Hist,  of  Rom.  Comm.  i.  15. 


THE  FALL  OF  MAGEDON. 


157 


\ 


refused  to  listen  to  the  advances  of  Perseus,  and  the 
war  went  on;  still,  on  the  side  of  Rome,  under  generals 
more  or  less  unequal  to  their  work,  until  Paulus  iEmi- 
lius,  son  of  the  consul  who  had  died  so  gallantly  at 
Cannafe,  was  elected  the  second  time  to  the  consulship, 
b.c.  168.  Above  sixty  years  old,  but  hale  and  vigorous, 
he  was  a  strict  disciplinarian,  and  as  judicious  as  he 
was  brave.  He  concluded  the  war  in  a  few  months,  by 
the  great  victory  of  Pydna.  The  description  given  of 
the  veteran  general  in  the  battle  is,  unfortunately,  one 
of  the  many  mutilated  passages  in  this  imperfect  De¬ 
cade,  and  has  been  filled  in  by  a  later  and  inferior  hand. 
When  he  saw  his  vanguard  giving  way,  as  they  did  be¬ 
fore  the  first  onset  of  the  Macedonian  phalanx,  “he 
tore  his  cloak  in  sheer  indignation.”  The  sight  of  the 
old  man  rushing  into  the  fight  and  exposing  himself 
like  the  youngest  officer,  recalled  the  men  to  their  duty. 
It  was  a  desperate  and  doubtful  fight,  though  of  short 
duration;  but,  the  phalanx  once  broken,  the  Roman 
victory  was  complete.  An  hour  was  enough  to  decide 
the  fate  of  Macedonia.  20,000  of  the  Macedonians 
were  left  dead  on  the  field :  Livy  would  have  us  believe 
that  the  Romans  only  lost  100  men.  They  made  11,000 
prisoners.  The  Macedonian  and  Thracian  cavalry  left 
the  field  almost  without  striking  a  blow.  They  escorted 
the  king,  who  is  said  to  have  been  the  first  to  fly,  to 
Amphipolis;  and  in  two  days  all  Macedonia  was  at  the 
feet  of  the  Romans.  Perseus  was  pursued  to  Samoth- 
race,  and  there  taken  prisoner,  and  led  captive,  with 
his  two  young  sons,  before  the  consul’s  chariot  in  his 
triumph  at  Rome. 

“It  was  not  only  Perseus  who  just  then  presented  an  instance 
of  the  mutability  of  human  fortunes,  led  in  chains  before  the 
chariot  of  his  conqueror  through  the  capital  of  his  enemies ;  but 


158 


LIVY. 


even  the  conqueror  Paulus,  in  all  the  glory  of  his  purple  and  gold. 
Of  the  two  sons  whom  he  had  kept  at  home  (he  had  parted  with 
the  others,  to  be  adopted),  the  sole  remaining  heirs  of  his  name, 
his  fortunes,  and  his  house,  the  younger,  twelve  years  old,  died 
five  days  before  the  triumph ;  the  elder,  of  fourteen,  four  days 
afterwards:  boys  who  might  have  hoped  to  have  ridden  ?n  their 
father’s  chariot  in  their  robes  of  honor,  anticipating  similar  tri¬ 
umphs  for  themselves.”— (xlv.  40.) 

Paulus  himself  is  made  to  refer  touchingly  to  this 
bereavement  in  his  public  speech  a  few  days  afterwards, 
alluding  to  that  jealousy  of  the  Higher  Powers  which 
was  held,  in  the  Roman  creed  almost  as  much  as  in  that 
of  Greece,  to  follow  all  too  great  exaltation  of  mortal 
prosperity. 

“I  trust  the  public  fortunes  may  be  ransomed  from  reverse  by 
my  own  bitter  personal  sorrow,  inasmuch  as  my  triumph  has 
been  preceded  and  followed  by  the  deaths  of  my  two  sons.  Per¬ 
seus,  though  in  his  own  captivity  he  saw  his  children  led  captive, 
still  has  them  safe:  I,  who  have  triumphed  in  his  defeat,  came 
from  the  funeral  of  one  son,  in  my  chariot  from  the  Capitol,  to 
the  deathbed  of  another;  and  of  my  many  children,  there  is  none 
surviving  to  bear  the  name  of  iEmilius  Paulus.” — (xlv.  41.) 

The  unfortunate  successor  of  Alexander  the  Great 
died  in  exile  at  Alba,  and  Macedonia  finally  became  a 
Roman  province.  But  at  this  point  the  Annals  of  Livy 
fail  us — his  remaining  books  have  disappeared.  Yet 
this  accidental  termination  can  scarcely  be  called  abrupt; 
for  Polybius  dates  from  this  battle  of  Pydna  the  full 
establishment  of  the  universal  empire  of  Rome. 


CONCLUDING  REMARKS. 


159 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

CONCLUDING  REMARKS. 

*  N 

It  has  been  impossible,  in  the  limits  of  this  volume, 
to  examine  critically  into  the  historical  truth  of  the 
statements  contained  in  these  voluminous  Annals.  The 
keenest  and  most  learned  inquirers  are  by  no  means 
agreed  in  their  estimate  of  Livy  as  a  historical  author¬ 
ity.  Between  the  sweeping  statement  of  Macaulay, 
that  “no  historian  with  whom  we  are  acquainted  has 
shown  so  complete  an  indifference  to  truth,”  and  the 
chivalrous  “Plea”  put  forth  in  his  defence  by  Dr. 
Dyer,*  there  is  room  for  various  degrees  of  faith  or 
scepticism.  His  leading  purpose  was  undoubtedly  first 
to  celebrate  the  growth  of  his  country’s  glory,  and 
secondly  to  charm  by  his  narrative  and  dramatic  powers 
the  educated  readers  of  the  court  of  Augustus.  If  he 
sometimes  disguised  the  truth  for  his  purposes,  it  was 
rather  an  artistic  than  a  moral  dishonesty;  it  was  the  same 
kind  of  delinquency  as  that  of  the  painter  who  plants 
or  cuts  down  his  tree  in  the  foreground,  in  order  to  im- 
prove  the  composition  of  his  picture;  or  who  translates 
liberally  on  his  canvas  the  homely  features  of  his  sitter. 
Livy  wanted  many  qualifications  which  we  should  con-  4 
sider  indispensable  for  a  national  historian.  He  wrote 
of  war  as  a  civilian,  of  constitutional  history  as  a  lay¬ 
man,  of  antiquities  as  a  gossip;  and  of  many  things 
which  we  look  for  in  a  comprehensive  history — of  art, 
of  literature,  of  domestic  manners — he  does  not  write 
at  all.  Of  geography  he  seems  to  have  known  nothing, 


*  A  Plea  for  Livy. 


160 


LIV7. 


and  his  best  defence  is  that  he  professes  nothing.  He 
ought  to  have  had  some  acquaintance  with  the  Alps, 
and  might  have  at  least  settled  for  us  the  question 
of  Hannibal’s  route;  but  he  does  not,  and  e^iently 
does  not  care  to  do  so.  It  is  impossible  to1  follow 
him  in  any  account  of  a  campaign.  His  only  attempt 
at  a  geographical  description,  so  far  as  we  know,  was 
curiously  enough,  that  of  our  own  island:  it  was  con¬ 
tained  in  a  portion  of  his  history  now  lost  to  us,  and  if 
we  may  judge  from  the  vagueness  of  his  other  notices, 
the  loss  is  no  great  matter.  Gibbon  half  apologizes  for 
this  defect  in  him  as  a  military  historian,  by  saying  that 
he  wrote  as  “a  man  of  letters,  covered  with  the  dust 
of  his  library;”  but  to  imagine  Livy  as  pouring  over 
old  manuscripts  and  charters,  and  ransacking  a  hun¬ 
dred  volumes  (if  he  had  them)  to  verify  a  date  or  an 
incident  would  be  a  great  mistake.  He  seems  to  have 
balanced,  in  some  off-hand  way,  the  varying  statements 
of  the  half-dozen  authors  whom  he  consulted  (possibly 
he  had  no  more  to  consult),  to  have  adopted,  as  he 
more  than  once  almost  confesses,  that  which  seemed 
to  him  the  most  picturesque  and  best  adapted  for  his 
purpose,  and  to  have  built  up  on  it  his  own  rich  and 
fluent  narrative. 

Yet  it  is  true  that  with  all  this  utter  want  of  the 
critical  and  judicial  faculties  which  go  so  far  to  make 
a  great  historian — and  though  he  dealt  with  facts  very 
much  on  the  principle  that,  when  they  did  not  favor 
his  purpose  as  the  chronicler  of  the  national  glory,  it 
was  “so  much  the  worse  for  the  facts” — he  has,  to 
use  M.  Taine’s  words,*  done  more  for  Roman  history 
than  all  who  have  striven  to  reconstruct  him.  The 


*  Ussai  sur  Tite  Live,  p.  179, 


CONCLUDING  REMARKS. 


161 


impression  he  has  left  on  us  of  the  grandeur  of  Rome, 
and  the  steps  by  which  she  reached  it,  is  the  true  one. 
The  charm  of  his  narrative  is  not  spoilt  —  it  even 
sometimes  gains  in  interest — by  his  intensely  Roman 
feeling.  Our  own  national  spirit  goes  a  long  way  to 
excuse  him  when  he  ascribes  to  Carthaginians,  to 
Greeks,  to  Asiatics,  “perfidy,”  and  boastfulness,  and 
falsehood,  as  though  they  were  vices  abhorrent  to 
Roman  nature :  if  they  were  not  unknown  in  Romans 
as  they  were,  at  least  he  repudiates  them  for  Romans 
as  they  should  be.  Much  has  been  said  as  to  his  in¬ 
justice  to  the  character  of  Hannibal.  But,  in  the  first 
place,  he  is  not  nearly  so  unjust  to  him  as  were  the 
national  poets  of  Rome;  and  in  their  case  and  in  his, 
wide  allowance  must  be  made  for  the  light  in  which 
the  patriot  poet  or  chronicler  looks  upon  the  invader 
of  his  country.  Not  to  introduce  any  modern  in¬ 
stances, — are  we  much  surprised  that  the  Jesuits  in 
Spain  should  have  painted  Sir  Francis  Drake  as  half 
man  and  half  devil,  and  the  rest  of  the  English  nation 
as  little  better  than  fiends?  And  do  we  remember 
how  our  own  writers  of  the  day  slandered  and  cari¬ 
catured  the  great  Napoleon?  But,  after  all,  the  im- 
p  °3sion  which  we  gain  of  Hannibal  from  the  pages  of 
Livy  is  that  he  was  beyond  comparison  the  greatest 
general  of  his  age;  counterpoising  in  his  own  person, 
if  not  outweighing,  the  various  abilities  of  the  succes¬ 
sive  commanders  —  some  of  them  remarkable  men — 
whom  Rome  sent  into  the  field  against  him.  Con¬ 
sciously  or  unconsciously, — whether  his  admiration 
for  the  man  overcame  his  national  prejudice,  or  the 
instinct  of  the  artist  selected  that  grand  figure  for  his 
model, — he  has  made  the  mighty  Carthaginian  the  hero 
of  his  tale. 


m 


LIVY, 


For  an  artist  Livy  is,  when  all  has  been  said,  far 
more  than  a  historian.  The  word  historian  means,  in 
its  very  derivation,  a  patient  inquirer  into  facts  and 
circumstances;  and  that  Livy  was  not.  It  was  the 
powers  of  the  poet,  the  novelist,  the  dramatist,  which 
he  possessed  in  such  large  measure,  and  these  have  given 
to  his  pages  a  lasting  interest,  undiminished  even  when 
his  story  is  no  longer  accepted  in  all  cases  as  trust¬ 
worthy.  Above  all  he  carries  his  readers  with  him  by 
his  great  gift  of  oratory — the  gift  which  perhaps  the 
Romans,  like  the  Athenians,  in  their  pride  of  civilizai 
tion,  valued  beyond  all  others,  and  which  has  by  no 
means  lost  its  position  amongst  ourselves. 


THE  END. 


OYID 


BY  THE 

Bey.  ALFRED  CHURCH ,  M. A. 

HEAD-MASTER  OF  KING  EDWARD  VI. ’s  SCHOOL, 
EAST  RETFORD 


l 


NEW  YORK 

JOHN  B.  ALDEN,  PUBLISHER 

1883 


] 


I 

*  ' 


. 


. 


, 

'■  ■\V'..2U 


.v  ’ 

. 

- 

■ 

■  -  Be  “  • 

•  ■  -  ...  - 1  ■ 
-  ■  > 


‘"'-X 


>  • 


The  extracts  from  the  "Metamorphoses”  are,  with 
one  exception  (marked  "C.”),  taken  from  Mr.  Henry 
King’s  admirable  version  of  that  poem  (Blackwood  & 
Sons,  1871).  The  translations  in  Chapter  II.  marked 
"D.,”  are  from  a  volume  to  which  Dryden  and  others 
contributed.  A  passage  from  the  Epistle  of  Laodamia 
to  Protesilaus,  and  also  the  Elegy  on  the  death  of  Tibul¬ 
lus,  both  in  the  same  chapter,  are  taken — the  former, 
from  a  little  collection  of  Translations  and  Poems  by 
Miss  E.  Garland  (Liverpool,  1842);  the  latter  (a  transla¬ 
tion  by  Professor  Nichol)  from  Mr.  James  Cranstoun’s 
"Elegies  of  Tibullus.”  For  the  other  translations,  ex¬ 
cept  where  an  obligation  is  specially  acknowledged,  I 
am  myself  responsible. 

As  regards  the  banishment  of  the  Poet,  I  have  to  ex¬ 
press  my  obligations  to  au  article  by  Dr.  Dyer,  published 
in  the  "  Classical  Museum.” 


A.  C. 


, 


' 


'  .  •  1 


■  *  -  t 

.  ■ 


*  '  .  -  ,  .  ■  .  •  .  * 

.  ;  .  •  IV'  J  1  V  ;  :  t  • 


v  .  j  1 


. 

■ 


.■ 


' 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  Early  Life  — The  Augustan  Age  of  Roman  Love- 

Poetry .  7 

II.  The  Love-Poems .  23 

in.  Domestic  Life — Banishment .  41 

IV.  The  Metamorphoses,  or  Transformations .  51 

V.  *The  Fasti,  or  Roman  Calendar .  76 

VT.  Departure  from  Rome— The  Place  of  Exile .  93 


VII.  The  Poems  of  Exile:  The  Tristia,  or  the  “Sorrows”..  102 

VIII.  The  Poems  of  Exile :  The  Letters  from  the  Pontus— 
Death  of  Ovid 


IX.  Fragments— Lost  Poems— General  Observations 


116 

131 


; 


im  m 

3j.it  ii.-fc  •'.*  r.  A  *  t  '  »  4  *  4  f  •’  < 

■  ' 

®  * 


Si'.;  ..  ■ 


■ 


* 

' 

■ 


v»' 

. 

■ 


$4 


OVID 

CHAPTER  I. 

EARLY  LIFE — THE  AUGUSTAN  AGE  OF  ROMAN  LOVE- 

POETRY. 

/ 

Ovid,  like  Horace,  is  his  own  biographer.  In  some 
respects  he  is  even  more  communicative  than  his  fel¬ 
low-poet.  Horace,  for  instance,  is  reticent,  as  a  rule, 
about  his  own  compositions.  The  writer  of  the  Odes 
might,  for  all  we  know,  be  a  different  man  from  the 
author  of  the  Satires  or  the  author  of  the  Epistles. 
Ovid,  on  the  contrary,  takes  good  care  that  his  readers 
should  be  well  acquainted  with  the  list  of  his  works. 
Then,  again,  there  is  something  very  shadowy  and  un¬ 
real  about  the  beauties  to  whom  Horace  pours  forth  his 
passion  or  his  reproaches.  Lydia,  Cliloe,  Barine,  Lalage, 
Glycera — there  is  scarcely  one  of  them  all  whom  we 
may  venture  to  pronounce  anything  more  than  a  crea¬ 
tion  of  the  poet’s  fancy.  But  Ovid’s  Corinna,  the  one 
mistress  to  whom  he  dedicates  his  song,  is  only  too 
real.  Who  she  was,  of  what  rank  and  character,  the 
learned  have  disputed;  but  that  she  was  a  real  person¬ 
age  no  one  doubts.  And  then  he  gives  us  the  most 
copious  and  exact  information  about  his  birthplace,  his 
family,  his  education,  his  marriage,  his  fortunes  in  gen¬ 
eral.  Yet,  for  all  this,  the  personality  of  the  man  him¬ 
self  seems  to  elude  us.  Some  one  has  said  that  we 
should  recognize  Horace  were  we  to  meet  him  in  the 


8 


OVID. 


street.  Short  and  corpulent,  the  sunny  and  cheerful 
youthfulness  of  his  face  belying  his  white  hair,  his  gay 
figure  seems  familiar  to  us.  We  are  acquainted  with 
all  his  tastes  and  habits;  he  confesses  his  faults;  his 
virtues  show  themselves.  Ovid  does  not  give  us  such 
confidences.  The  most  exact  statement  that  he  ever 
makes  about  his  own  character — that  though  his  verse 
was  loose  his  life  was  pure — we  must  be  permitted  to 
disbelieve.  The  real  Ovid  is  almost  as  unknown  to  us 
as  is  the  real  Virgil .  Nevertheless,  there  is  more  to  be 
said  of  him  than  can  be  contained  within  the  limits  of 
this  volume.  And  here  it  may  be  said,  once  for  all,  that 
much  will  have  to  be  omitted,  not  only  for  want  of 
space,  but  for  yet  more  imperative  reasons  of  morality 
and  good  taste. 

Publius  Ovidius  Naso  was  born  at  Sulmo,  a  town 
in  Peligni,  a  district  of  Northern  Italy  which  took  its 
name  from  one  of  the  Samnite  tribes.  The  Samnites, 
Rome’s  stoutest  antagonist  in  her  early  struggles  for  the 
supremacy  of  Italy,  nearly  overthrew  her  empire  when 
it  had  been  extended  over  all  the  shores  of  the  Mediter¬ 
ranean.  It  was  with  the  Marsi,  the  neighbors  of  the 
Peligni  on  the  west,  that  the  war  of  the  Italian  allies 
against  Rome,  commonly  called  by  historians  the  Social 
War,  began.  Ovid  recounts,  with  a  pride  which  may 
seem  strange  in  a  loyal  Roman,  the  part  which  his  own 
countrymen  had  taken  in  the  struggle — 

“  Whom  freedom’s  voice  to  noble  warfare  led, 

When  their  own  allies  were  the  Romans’  dread.’ 

But  in  truth  the  poet  was  not  venturing  on  any  danger¬ 
ous  ground  in  thus  writing.  The  cause  of  the  allies 
had  been  closely  connected  with  the  cause  of  the  de¬ 
mocracy.  And  the  Roman  empire,  like  another  empire 


EARLY  LIFE. 


9 


of  our  own  times,  had  inherited  the  democratic  tradi¬ 
tions.  “Their  cause,”  says  Velleius  Paterculus,  a 
younger  contemporary  of  Ovid,  and  conspicuous  for 
his  flattery  of  Augustus  and  Tiberius,  “was  as  righteous 
as  their  fate  was  terrible,  for  they  sought  to  be  citizens 
of  the  state  whose  sway  they  defended  with  their 
swords.”  The  emperors  would  find  no  offence  in  sym¬ 
pathy  with  the  opponents  of  that  aristocracy  on  the 
ruins  of  whose  power  their  own  throne  was  founded. 
The  poet  speaks  more  than  once  of  the  fertility  and 
healthfulness  of  his  native  district.  These  blessings  itr 
cliiefly  owed  to  its  copious  and  unfailing  streams.  Its 
pastures  never  dried  up,  even  under  the  scorching  suns 
of  an  Italian  summer.  Its  water-meadows  are  specially 
mentioned.  It  produced  wheat  in  abundance;  audits 
light  fine  soil  was  even  better  adapted  for  the  vine  and 
the  olive.  The  town  of  Sulmo  boasted  a  high  antiquity. 
A  fanciful  etymology  found  in  the  word  the  name  of  a 
companion  of  iEneas,  sprung  from  the  Phrygian  So- 
lymi,*  to  whom  that  chieftain  had  given  one  of  his 
daughters  in  marriage.  It  took  the  side  of  the  van¬ 
quished  party  in  the  struggle  between  Marius  and  Sulla, 
and  suffered  cruelly  in  consequence.  More  fortunate 
in  the  next  civil  war,  it  opened  its  gates  to  Julius  Caesar. 
Ovid  (he  always  called  himself  Nasof)  belonged  to  one 
of  the  oldest  families  in  this  town.  It  was  of  eques¬ 
trian  or  knightly  rank,  and  had  possessed  this  distinc¬ 
tion  for  many  generations.  “In  my  family,”  he  says, 


*  The  same  origin  was  assigned,  on  equally  good  grounds,  to 
Jerusalem.  “Hierosolyma”  was,  of  course,  the  sacred  ( hieros ) 
city  of  the  Solymi ! 

t  Most  of  the  writers  who  mention  him  follow  the  same  prac¬ 
tice,  but  Tacitus  and  the  Younger  Seneca  speak  of  him  as 
Ovidius, 


OVID . 


10 

“you  will  find  knights  up  through  an  endless  line  of 
ancestry;”  and  he  looks  down,  just  as  among  ourselves 
a  baronet  looks  down  on  a  knight,  on  men  who  had 
won  that  honor  for  themselves. 

“I  never  climbed,  not  I,  from  step  to  step.” 

And  he  complains  loudly  to  the  faithless  Corinna — 

“  Some  knight,  with  wealth  by  wounds  but  newly  earned, 
Full-fed  on  slaughter,  is  preferred  to  me!" 

The  poet  was  born  on  March  the  20th,  43  b.c.  He 
marks  the  year  by  speaking  of  it  as  that 

“  In  which  both  consuls  met  an  equal  fate.” 

These  consuls  were  Hirtius  and  Pansa,  both  of  whom 
perished  at  the  siege  of  Mutina,  fighting  against  Mark 
Antony.  The  Roman  Republic  virtually  perished  with 
them,  though  we  may  be  sure  that  had  they  lived  they 
could  not  have  prolonged  its  existence.  Ovid’s  birth 
coincides  appropriately  enough  with  the  beginning  of 
the  imperial  system.  The  day  is  noted  as  being  the  sec¬ 
ond  of  the  five  days’  festival  to  Minerva  (March  19-23). 
Minerva  was  the  patroness  of  learning;  and  Juvenal 
tells  us  that  ambitious  young  scholars  were  wont  at  this 
time  to  address  to  images  of  the  goddess  which  cost  them 
a  penny  of  their  pocket-money  their  prayers  for  success 
and  fame.  He  had  a  brother  who  was  his  elder  by  ex¬ 
actly  a  year — 

“  A  double  birthday-offering  kept  the  day.” 

The  brothers  were  carefully  educated,  and  were  sent  at 
an  early  age  to  the  best  teachers  in  Rome.  Their  father 
intended  that  both  should  follow  the  profession  of  an 
advocate.  The  intention  suited  the  inclinations  of  the 
elder;  the  heart  of  the  youngest  was  otherwise  inclined. 


EARLY  LIFE. 


11 


He  wrote  verses  “  by  stealth”  just  as  Frank  Osbaldistone 
wrote  them  in  the  counting-house  at  Bordeaux.  And 
Ovid’s  father  was  as  just  contemptuous  as  the  elder 
Osbaldistone  of  the  unprofitable  pursuit.  The  poet  says 
that  he  was  moved  by  the  paternal  admonitions, — ad¬ 
monitions  which  indeed  there  were  obvious  ways  of  en¬ 
forcing.  He  applied  himself  seriously  to  the  business 
of  learning  his  profession.  The  best  known  of  those 
who  have  been  mentioned  as  his  teachers  were  Porcius 
Latro,  by  birth  a  Spaniard,  who  had  migrated  to  Rome 
under  the  patronage  of  Augustus,  and  Arellius  Fuscus, 
a  rival  professor  of  the  rhetorical  art.  It  was  Latro’s 
practice  to  teach  his  pupils  by  declaiming  before  them; 
Fuscus,  with  what  we  may  conjecture  to  have  been  a 
more  effective  method,  made  the  youths  themselves  de¬ 
claim.  The  Elder  Seneca  *  speaks  of  having  heard  Ovid 
perform  such  an  exercise  before  Fuscus.  ‘  ‘  His  speech,  ” 
he  says,  “  could  not  then  be  called  anything  else  than 
poetry  out  of  metre.  ”  But  he  adds  that  the  poet  had  while 
a  student  a  high  reputation  as  a  declaimer ;  and  he  speaks 
strongly  in  praise  of  the  particular  discourse  which  he 
had  himself  happened  to  hear,  describing  it  as  one  of 
marked  ability,  though  somewhat  wanting  in  order. 
The  poetical  character  of  the  young  student’s  oratory — 
a  charaoter  quite  out  of  keeping,  it  should  be  remarked, 
with  the  genius  of  Latin  eloquence — exactly  suits  what 
Ovid  says  of  himself — 

“  Whate’er  I  sought  to  say  was  still  in  verse;” 

which  may  be  paraphrased  by  Pope’s  famous  line — 

‘‘I  lisped  in  numbers,  for  the  numbers  came.” 

*  He  was  the  father  of  the  Younger  Seneca,  Nero’s  tutor,  and 
of  Gallio,  the  proconsul  of  Achaia  (Acts  xviii.),  and  grandfather 
of  the  poet  Lucan. 


OVID. 


is 

Seneca  further  tells  ns  that  he  had  a  special  fondness 
for  dealing  with  moral  themes,  and  he  gives  some  inter¬ 
esting  instances  of  expressions  in  the  poems  which  were 
borrowed  from  the  declamations  of  his  master,  Latro. 
The  brothers  assumed,  in  due  time,  the  toga,  or  distin¬ 
guishing  dress  of  manhood.*  This  robe,  as  sons  of  a 
knight  of  ancient  family,  and  aspirants,  it  was  pre¬ 
sumed,  to  public  life,  they  were  permitted  to  wear  with 
the  broad  edge  of  purple  which  distinguished  the  sena¬ 
tor.  The  elder  brother  died  immediately  after  com¬ 
pleting  his  twentieth  year,  and  this  event  removed  the 
objection. which  the  father  had  made  to  the  indulgence 
of  Ovid’s  poetical  tastes.  The  family  property,  which 
was  not  of  more  than  moderate  extent,  would  not  have 
to  be  divided,  and  there  was  no  longer  any  necessity 
why  the  only  son  should  follow  a  lucrative  profession. 

About  this  time  we  may  place  Ovid’s  visit  to  Athens. 
A  single  line  contains  all  the  mention  that  he  makes  of 
it,  but  this  informs  us  that  he  went  there  for  purposes 
of  study.  What  particular  study  he  followed  we  do  not 
know.  It  could  scarcely  have  been  moral  philosophy, 
which  Horace  tells  us  had  been  his  own  favorite  subject 
there;  rhetoric  he  had  probably  by  this  time  resolved 
to  abandon.  But  Athens,  which  may  be  described  as 
the  university  of  the  Roman  world,  doubtless  contained 
professors  of  the  belles  lettres,  as  well  as  of  severer 
studies;  and  v.  e  may  feel  sure  that  the  poet  took  this 
opportunity  of  perfecting  his  knowledge  of  the  Greek 
literature  and  language  Possibly  his  stay  at  Athens 
was  followed  or  interrupted  by  a  tour  which  he  made 
in  company  with  the  poet  Macer,  the  younger  of  that 
name,  whose  friendship  he  retained  until  the  end  of  his 


♦  This  was  commonly  done  on  completing  the  sixteentl  year. 


early  life. 


13 


life.  This  tour  included  the  famous  Greek  cities  of 
western  Asia  Minor.  As  Macer  found  the  subject  of  his 
verse  in  the  Trojan  war,  the  friends  probably  visited  the 
site  of  the  famous  city.  Ovid,  we  know,  was  once 
there ;  and,  in  these  days  of  Trojan  discoveries,  it  may 
be  interesting  to  remember  that  he  speaks  of  himself  as 
having  seen  the  temple  of  Pallas.  From  Asia  Minor 
they  passed  to  Sicily,  where  they  spent  the  greater  part 
of  a  year; — a  happy  time,  to  which  Ovid,  addressing  his 
old  companions  in  one  of  the  letters  of  his  exile,  turns 
with  pathetic  regret. 

Returning  to  the  capital,  he  did  not  at  once  give  up 
the  prospect  of  a  public  career.  On  the  contrary,  he 
sought  some  of  the  minor  offices  in  which  the  aspirant 
for  promotion  commonly  began  his  course.  We  find 
him  filling  a  post  which  seems  singularly  incongruous 
with  his  tastes  and  pursuits.  He  wras  made  one  of  the 
Triumviri  Capitales,  officials  who  combined,  to  a  certain 
degree,  the  duties  of  our  police  magistrates  and  under¬ 
sheriffs.  They  took  the  preliminary  examination  in 
cases  of  serious  crimes,  exercised  a  summary  jurisdic¬ 
tion,  both  civil  and  criminal,  in  causes  where  slaves,  or 
other  persons  not  citizens,  were  concerned,  inspected 
prisons,  and  superintended  the  execution  of  criminals. 
There  were  other  Triumviri,  however,  who  had  duties 
connected  with  the  coining  of  money,  and  Ovid’s  words 
are  so  vague  as  to  leave  it  uncertain  which  of  the  two 
offices  he  filled.  He  also  afterwards  became  a  mem¬ 
ber  of  the  “  Court  of  the  Hundred,”  which  had  an  ex¬ 
tensive  and  important  jurisdiction  in  both  civil  and 
criminal  matters.  In  this  he  was  promoted  to  be  one 
of  the  ten  superintendents  (i decemviri )  who  formed  the 
council  of  the  presiding  judge.  He  seems  also  to  have 
occasionally  acted  as  an  arbitrator  or  referee.  The  pro- 


14 


fession  of  an  advocate  he  never  followed.  An  expreS-  - 
sion  that  has  been  sometimes  taken  to  mean  that  he  did 
so,  really  refers  to  his  position  in  the  Court  of  the  Hun¬ 
dred.  “  The  fate  of  men  accused,”  he  says,  seeking  to 
prove  to  Augustus  that  he  had  been  a  man  of  integrity, 

“  was  intrusted  to  me  without  damage.”  He  was  now 
one  of  the  “  Twenty”  who  were  regarded  as  candidates 
for  the  higher  offices  in  the  state,  and  for  seats  in  the 
senate,*  and  who  enjoyed  the  distinction  of  sitting 
among  senators  in  the  orchestra  seats  of  the  circus  and 
the  amphitheatre.  The  time  soon  came  when  he  had 
definitely  to  choose  whether  he  would  follow  public  life, 
or  rather  that  shadow  of  it  which  was  left  to  Roman 
citizens  under  the  Empire.  Members  of  the  ‘  ‘  Twenty,  ” 
on  attaining  their  twenty -fourth  year,  became  eligible 
for  the  qusestorship,  an  office  connected  with  the  reve¬ 
nue— -the  lowest  grade  of  the  magistracies,  properly  so 
called,  but  giving  a  seat  in  the  senate.  Ovid  declined 
to  become  a  candidate  for  the  office.  He  exchanged  the 
broad  purple  stripe  which  he  had  worn,  as  a  possible 
senator,  for  the  narrower  stripe  which  belonged  to  his 
hereditary  rank  as  a  knight.  We  must  now  regard  him 
as  a  private  gentleman  of  Rome,  well-born,  and  of  re¬ 
spectable  but  not  ample  means.  His  parents  were  still 
living,  and  he  hints  in  one  place  that  he  had  to  content 
himself  with  a  moderate  allowance. 

Yery  early  in  life,  when,  as  he  says  himself,  he  was 
‘'almost  a  boy,”  Ovid  was  married  to  a  wife  probably 
chosen  for  him  by  his  father.  The  match  he  gives  us 
to  understand,  brought  him  neither  honor  nor  profit. 

*  The  “  Twenty”  were  made  up  in  this  way:  three  Commission¬ 
ers  of  Police  (the  Triumviri  Capitales ,  mentioned  before),  three 
Commissioners  of  the  Mint,  four  Commissioners  of  Roads,  and 
ten  Superintendents  of  the  Court  of  the  Hundred. 


EARLY  LIFE. 


15 


Probably  her  conduct  was  not  without  reproach,  and 
her  fortune  did  not  answer  his  expectations.  She  was 
speedily  divorced.  Another  wife  was  soon  found  by 
him  or  for  him.  All  that  we  know  of  her  is,  that  she 
was  a  native  of  the  Etrurian  town  of  Falisci.  He  con¬ 
fesses  that  he  had  no  fault  to  find  with  her;  but  the 
second  marriage  was,  nevertheless,  of  as  short  duration 
as  the  first.  It  is  easy  to  gather  the  cause  from  the  poet's 
own  confessions  about  himself. 

The  literary  society  of  which  the  young  poet  now 
found  himself  a  recognized  member,  was  perhaps  the 
most  brilliant  which  has  ever  been  collected  in  one 
place.  The  Athens  of  Pericles  in  one  point  surpassed 
it  in  the  magnitude  of  individual  genius.  But  in  extent, 
in  variety  of  literary  power,  the  Rome  of  Augustus 
stands  pre  eminent  in  the  history  of  letters.  That  pre 
eminence,  indeed,  has  been  recorded  in  the  name  which 
it  has  bequeathed  to  following  times. 

“  Augustan"  is  the  epithet  that  has  been  applied  m 
more  than  one  instance  to  the  age  in  which  a  national 
literature  has  attained  its  greatest  development.  In  our 
own  history  it  signifies  the  period  of  which  Pope  was 
in  poetry  the  most  brilliant  representative.  Used  of 
Roman  literature,  it  may  be  taken  to  denote,  speaking 
somewhat  loosely,  the  former  half  of  the  reign  of  Au¬ 
gustus.  Virgil,  Livy,  Horace,  Sallust,  the  greatest  of 
the  names  which  adorned  it,  had  grown  to  manhood 
while  the  Republic  still  stood;  Ovid,  who  may  be  said 
to  close  the  period,  was,  as  we  have  seen,  born  on  the 
last  day  of  Roman  freedom.  But.  indeed,  the  best 
days  of  the  Augustan  age  had  almost  passed  when 
Ovid  became  a  member  of  the  literary  society  of  the 
capital.  The  man  who  was,  in  one  sense,  its  ruling 
spirit,  no  longer  possessed  the  power  which  he  had 


16 


OVID . 


used  so  generously  and  wisely  for  the  encouragement 
of  genius.  For  in  this  case,  as  in  so  many  others,  the 
ruler  has  usurped  the  honor  which  belongs  to  the 
minister.  It  was  Maecenas,  not  Augustus,  who  made 
the  imperial  court  the  abode  of  letters.  The  emperor 
deserves  only  the  credit  of  possessing  culture  sufficient 
to  appreciate  the  genius  which  his  minister  had  discov¬ 
ered.  But  the  power  of  Maecenas  did  not  last  beyond 
the  first  ten  years  of  Augustus’s  reign.  Though  not 
ostensibly  disgraced,  he  no  longer  shared,  or  indeed 
could  have  desired  to  share — so  bitter  was  the  wrong 
which  he  had  suffered  from  his  master — the  emperor’s 
friendship.  Though  still  nominally  a  Councillor  of 
State,  he  had  actually  retired  into  private  life.  Re¬ 
taining,  if  we  may  judge  from  what  we  know  of 
Horace,  the  private  friendship  of  those  whom  he  had 
assisted,  he  no  longer  bestowed  his  patronage  on  rising 
genius.  We  find,  accordingly,  that  Ovid  never  men¬ 
tions  his  name.  Nor  was  the  young  poet  ever  admit¬ 
ted  to  the  intimacy  of  Augustus,  whose  court  probably 
somewhat  changed  its  tone  after  the  retirement  of  the 
great  literary  minister. 

For  the  older  poets,  whom  he  was  privileged  to  see 
or  know,  Ovid  describes  himself  as  having  felt  an  un¬ 
bounded  veneration: 

“In  every  bard  I  saw  a  form  divine.” 

“Virgil  I  did  but  see”  (a  phrase  which  has  become 
almost  proverbial*),  he  says,  in  his  interesting  account 
of  his  poetical  acquaintances  and  friends.  Virgil  cer¬ 
tainly  visited  Rome  some  time  between  the  years  b.c. 
23,  when  Marcellus  died,f  and  b.c.  20,  the  date  of  his 

*  “  Virgilium  tantum  vidi.” 

t  Marcellus  was  the  nephew  of  Augustus. 


EARLY  LIFE. 


17 


own  death,  for  lie  recited  before  the  imperial  family 
the  magnificent  eulogy  on  the  young  prince  which 
adorns  the  sixth  book  of  the  iEneid.  Very  likely  it 
was  on  this  occasion  that  Ovid  saw  ‘him.  His  habits 
— for  he  loved  the  country  as  truly  as  did  Horace — 
and  the  feebleness  of  his  health,  seem  to  have  made 
him  a  stranger  at  Rome  during  the  latter  years  of  his 
life. 

Another  great  contemporary  Ovid  mentions  in  these 
words —  i  ' 

“  The  tuneful  Horace  held  our  ears  enchained.” 

“Tuneful,”  indeed,  is  a  word  which  but  feebly  ex¬ 
presses  the  original  epithet  ( numerosus ).  “That  mas¬ 
ter  of  melod”  is  a  more  adequate  rendering,  and  it  is 
fit  praise  for  one  who  had  no  predecessor  or  successor 
among  his  countrymen  in  his  power  of  versification. 
There  is  nothing  to  indicate  the  existence  of  any  friend¬ 
ship  between  the  two  poets.  Horace  was  by  more  than 
twenty  years  the  elder,  and  was  beginning  to  weary  of 
the  life  of  pleasure  upon  which  the  younger  man  was 
just  entering. 

Not  a  single  line  has  been  preserved  of  three  other 
of  the  poets  whom  Ovid  regarded  with  such  reverence. 
Ponticus — 

“  For  epic  song  renowned”— 

wrote  a  poem  in  heroic — i.e.,  hexameter — verse  on  the 
war  of  the  “Seven  against  Thebes.”  Time  has  been 
peculiarly  cruel  to  the  world  in  not  suffering  it  to  sur¬ 
vive,  if  we  are  to  trust  Propertius,  who  affirms,  “as  he 
hopes  to  be  happy,”  that  Ponticus  was  a  match  for 
Homer  himself.  Of  Bassus  we  absolutely  know  nothing 
but  what  Ovid  tells  us,  that  he  was  famous  for  his 
dramatic  verse.  HSmilius  Macer,  of  Verona,  a  fellow- 


18 


OVID . 


countryman,  and,  as  Ovid  expressly  mentions  that  he 
was  much  his  own  junior,  probably  a  contemporary  of 
Catullus,  wrote  poems,  doubtless  modelled  after  Greek 
originals,  on  birds,  and  noxious  serpents,  and  the  heal¬ 
ing  qualities  of  herbs,  Another  Macek,  who  has  been 
mentioned  already  as  Ovid’s  companion  in  travel,  wrote 
about  the  Trojan  war.  Of  Domitius  Mahsus,  an  ele¬ 
giac  poet,  time  has  spared  a  beautiful  epigram  com¬ 
memorating  the  death  of  Tibullus.  It  would  be  easy  to 
prolong  the  list.  In  the  last  of  his  “Letters  from  the 
Pontus,”  Ovid  names,  each  with  a  phrase  descriptive  of 
his  genius  or  his  work,  the  poets  contemporary  with 
himself.  There  are  about  thirty  of  them.  Of  some  we 
do  not  know  even  the  names,  the  poet  having  thought 
it  sufficient  to  mention  or  allude  to  their  principal  works. 
Many  of  these  who  are  named  we  do  not  find  mentioned 
elsewhere,  and  Ovid’s  brief  phrase  is  all  that  is  left  of 
them.  The  works  of  all  have  either  perished  altogether 
or  survive  in  insignificant  fragments.*  Burmann,  the 
most  learned  of  Ovid’s  editors,  says  of  Maximus  Cotta, 
the  last  on  the  list: — “Him  and  Capella  and  others 
oblivion  has  overwhelmed  with  inexorable  night.  Would 
that  these  poets,  or,  at  least,  the  best  part  of  them,  had 
come  down  to  us,  and  other  foolish  and  useless  books 
had  remained  sunk  in  eternal  darkness  !” 

Happily  for  us,  a  kinder  fate  has  spared  the  works  of 
two  out  of  the  three  poets  whom  Ovid  has  named  as 
his  predecessors  and  teachers  in  his  own  peculiar  art  of 
amatory  verse.  “  He,”  says  the  poet,  speaking  of  the 
untimely  death  of  Tibullus,  “  was  thy  successor,  Gallus; 


*  The  reader  will  be  glad  to  see  a  noble  utterance  that  has  been 
preserved  of  one  of  their  number:  “  All  that  I  once  have  given 
Still  is  mine”  {Hoc  habeo  quodcunque  dedi). 


NEARLY  LIFE. 


1§ 


Propertius  was  his;  I  was  myself  the  fourth  in  the 
order  of  time.”  The  same  callocation  of  names  is  re¬ 
peated  more  than  once,  and  never  without  expressions 
that  indicate  the  pride  which  Ovid  felt  in  being  asso¬ 
ciated  with  men  of  such  genius.  This  judgment  has 
been  ratified  by  modern  taste.  Some  critics  have  not 
hesitated  to  prefer  the  happiest  efforts  of  Tibullus  and 
Propertius  (the  poems  of  Gallus  have  been  entirely  lost) 
to  anything  of  the  same  kind  that  came  from  the  pen  of 
Ovid.  The  plan  of  this  series  includes,  for  obvious 
reasons  of  convenience,  the  works  of  Tibullus  and  Pro¬ 
pertius  in  the  volume  which  will  give  an  account  of 
Catullus.  They  may  be  dismissed,  for  the  present, 
with  the  briefest  notice.  Fate,  says  Ovid  of  Tibullus, 
refused  the  time  which  might  have  made  us  friends. 
The  very  elegant  memorial  which  he  dedicated  to  his 
memory*  is  scarcely  expressive  of  a  personal  sorow. 
With  Propertius  he  was  on  terms  of  intimacy: 

“  To  me  by  terms  of  closest  friendship  bound.” 

“  Friendship”  indeed  hardly  expresses  the  term 
( sodalitium )  which  the  poet  uses,  and  which  implies 
a  certain  formal  tie.  Readers  will  remember  that  in 
the  ancient  world,  where  there  was  seldom  anything 
ennobling  in  the  relation  of  the  sexes,  friendship  as¬ 
sumed  a  dignity  and  importance  which  it  scarcely  pos¬ 
sesses  in  the  social  or  moral  systems  of  modern  life. 
Of  Gallus,  the  founder  of  the  school,  a  longer  account 
may  be  given. 


*  Graceful  and  elegant  as  it  is,  it  cannot  be  classed  with  the 
finest  works  of  its  kind.  The  ”Lycidas”of  Milton,  the  ‘‘Ad- 
onais”  of  Shelley,  and  Mr.  Matthew  Arnold’s  “  Thyrsis,”  are  all 
incomparably  superior  to  it.  It  is  entirely  a  work  of  art.  There 
is  little  or  nothing  of  pei'sonal  feeling  in  it. 


so 


OVID. 


Caius  Cornelius  Gallus,  born  at  Forum  Iulii  (now 
Frejus,  in  the  Riviera),  was,  like  Horace,  of  low  birth, 
but  received,  like  him,  an  education  superior  to  his 
station.  He  studied  under  one  of  the  best  teachers  of 
the  age,  and  had  Virgil  for  one  of  his  schoolfellows. 
After  the  murder  of  Julius  Ctesar,  he  joined  the  party 
of  Octavianus  (better  known  by  his  latter  title  of 
Augustus),  and  was  appointed  by  him  one  of  the  three 
commissioners  charged  with  the  distribution  of  the 
confiscated  lands  of  the  North  Italian  colonies  among 
the  discharged  veterans.  In  this  capacity  he  had  the 
opportunity  of  serving  his  old  friend.  Mantua,  though 
guiltless  of  any  olfence  against  the  victorious  party, 
was  included  in  the  confiscation;  and  the  estate  of 
Virgil,  which  was  situated  in  one  of  the  neighboring 
villages,  was  seized.  Gallus  exerted  himself  to  get  it 
restored  to  its  owner.  The  poet  repaid  him  by  most 
graceful  praise  of  the  political  powers  which  Gallus 
probably  valued  more  than  his  reputation  as  a  soldier. 
In  one  of  his  pastorals  he  makes  the  god  Silenus  sing — 

“  How  Gallus,  wandering  by  Permessian  streams, 

Some  Muse  conducted  to  th’  Aonian  hills, 

And  how  the  tuneful  choir  of  Phoebus  rose 
To  greet  their  mortal  guest,  while  Linus  spake, 

Old  Linus,  shepherd  of  the  deathless  song, 

His  hair  with  flowers  and  bitter  parsley  crowned— 

‘  Take  thou  these  pipes,  the  Muses’  gift  to  thee, 

As  erst  their  gift  to  Ascra’s  aged  bard  ; 

With  them  he  knew  to  draw  from  down  the  cliff 
The  sturdy  mountain-ash  trees.  Sing  on  these 
How  Grynia’s  grove  was  planted,  till  there  stand 
No  forest  dearer  to  Apollo’s  heart.’  ” 

Another  of  the  pastorals,  the  tenth  and  last,  has  the 
name  of  “Gallus”  for  its  title,  and  celebrates  in  ex¬ 
quisite  verse  the  unhappy  passion  of  the  soldier-poet  for 


EARLY  life. 


21 

the  faithless  Lycoris.  It  has  been  thought,  on  the 
strength  of  a  somewhat  obscure  passage  in  Ovid’s  elegy 
on  the  death  of  Tibullus,  that  Gallus  behaved  in  a  less 
friendly  manner  to  that  poet.  The  departed  bard,  we 
are  told,  would  meet  his  fellow-singers  Catullus  and 
Calvus  in  the  Elysian  fields — 

“  And  thou  too,  Gallus,  if  they  did  thee  wrong, 

Who  spake  of  friendship  shamed,  wilt  join  the  throng.” 

Tibullus  certainly  lost,  and  apparently  failed  to  recover, 
a  great  part  of  his  property;  and  it  has  been  conjec¬ 
tured  that  the  influence  of  Gallus,  was  used  to  obstruct 
restitution.  Perhaps  a  more  plausible  explanation 
may  be  found  in  the  circumstances  that  brought  his 
career  to  an  end.  He  had  rendered  great  services  in 
that  final  struggle  with  Mark  Anthony  which  put  the 
undivided  empire  into  the  hands  of  Augustus,  and  was 
appointed  in  reward  to  the  government  of  Egypt,  then 
for  the  first  time  a  Roman  province.  This  elevation 
turned,  or  was  said  to  have  turned,  his  head.  Accused 
of  having  used  insulting  words  about  Augustus,  he  was 
recalled.  Other  charges  were  brought  against  him, 
and  were  investigated  by  the  senate,  with  the  result 
that  his  property  was  confiscated,  and  that  he  was  sent 
into  exile.  Unable  to  bear  the  disgrace,  he  fell  upon 
his  sword.  He  was  in  his  fortieth  year.  We  can  judge 
of  his  poetical  merit  only  by  the  statements  of  his  con¬ 
temporaries;  but  if  these  are  to  be  trusted,  they  wTere  of 
the  very  highest  order.*  His  amatory  poems  consisted 
of  four  books  of  elegies  addressed  to  Lycoris. 

“  Gallus  to  east  and  west  is  known,  and  fame 
With  Gallus  joins  his  own  Lycoris’  name.” 


*  Quintilian,  however,  says  of  his  poetry  that  it  was  ‘‘some¬ 
what  harsh.” 


One  reflection  strikes  us  forcibly  as  we  compare  Ovid 
•with  liis  predecessors  and  contemporaries — a  reflection 
which,  whatever  the  qualities  in  which  they  may  be 
allowed  to  have  excelled  him,  explains  and  justifies  the 
higher  rank  which  he  has  received  in  the  judgment  of 
posterity.  He  wTas  cast,  so  to  speak,  in  a  larger  mould, 
and  made  of  stronger  stuff.  Nothing  is  more  significant 
of  this  than  the  very  superiority  of  his  physical  consti¬ 
tution.  They  almost  without  exception  (we  are  not 
speaking  now  of  Horace  and  Virgil)  passed  away  in  the 
very  prime  of  their  youth.  Catullus  died,  when  we  do 
not  know,  but  certainly  before  the  age  which  opened  to 
a  Roman  citizen  the  highest  offices  of  state.  He  comes 
to  meet  Tibullus  in  the  Elysian  fields,  “his  youthful 
brows  with  ivy  crowned.”  Calvus,  his  closest  friend, 
died  at  thirty-six;  Gallus,  Tibullus,  Propertius,  were 
not  older  when  they  passed  away.  The  fiery  passion 
which  shines  through  their  verse,  and  which  often  gives 
it  a  more  genuine  ring  than  we  find  in  Ovid’s  smoother 
song,  consumed  them.  Ovid  was  more  master  of  him¬ 
self.  Nor  was  his  intellectual  life  limited  to  the  expres¬ 
sion  of  passion.  His  mind  was  braced  by  the  severe 
studies  that  produced  the  “Transmutations”  and  the 
“Roman  Calendar.”  With  this  stronger,  more  practical, 
more  varied  intellict,  went  along  the  more  enduring 
physical  frame.  He  had  nearly  reached  his  sixtieth 
year  before  he  succumbed  to  the  miseries  and  privations 
of  a  protracted  exile.  And  sixty  years  of  Roman  life 
correspond,  it  must  be  remembered,  to  at  least  seventy 
among  those  who,  like  ourselves,  date  the  beginning  of 
manhood  not  from  sixteen,  but  only  nominally  even  from 
twenty-one.  We  may  perhaps  find  a  parallel,  at  least 
partially  appropriate,  in  the  contrast  between  Shakes¬ 
peare  and  his  more  sturdy  and  healthful  soul  and 


TEE  LOVE-POEMS. 


23 


frame,  and  his  short-lived  predecessors  in  the  dramatic 
art,  Marlowe  and  Greene,  men  of  genius  both,  but  con¬ 
sumed,  as  it  were,  by  the  fire  with  which  he  was  in¬ 
spired. 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE  LOYE-POEMS. 

Under  this  title  are  included  four  productions  which 
— to  speak  of  those  works  alone  which  have  come  down 
to  us — formed  the  literary  occupation  of  Ovid  from 
his  twentieth  to  his  forty-second  year.  These  four  are 
“The  Epistles  of  the  Heroines,”  “  The  Loves,”  “The 
Art  of  Love,”  and  “Remedies  for  Love.”  It  is  in  the 
second  of  these,  doubtless,  that  we  have  the  earliest  of 
the  poet’s  productions  that  survive.  He  tells  us  that  he 
recited  his  juvenile  poems  to  a  public  audience,  for 
the  first  time,  when  his  beard  had  been  twice  or  thrice 
shaved.  Shaving  the  beard  seems  to  have  been  a  fixed 
epoch  in  a  young  Roman’s  life,  occurring  somewhere 
about  his  twenty-first  or  twenty-second  year.  He  also 
tells  us  that  of  these  poems  Corinna  had  been  the  in¬ 
spiring  subject,  and  Corinna,  we  know,  is  celebrated  in 
“The  Loves.”  As  this  book,  however,  in  the  form  in 
which  we  now  have  it,  is  a  second  edition,  and  as  it 
makes  express  mention  of  ‘ ‘  The  Epistles  of  the  Heroines” 
as  a  work  already  published,  it  will  be  convenient  to 
speak  first  of  the  latter  poem.  It  consists  of  twenty- 
one  *  letters,  supposed  to  have  been  written  by  women 
famous  in  legend,  to  absent  husbands  or  lovers.  Ovid 


*  The  authenticity  of  some  of  .this  number  is  doubted,  or,  we 
might  say,  more  than  doubted.  But  the  question  is  beside  our 
present  purpose. 


24 


OVID, 


claims  the  idea  as  original,  and  we  must  therefore  sup¬ 
pose  that  the  one  example  of  the  kind  which  we  find 
in  Propertius  was  imitated  from  him — a  supposition 
which  gives  as  a  probable  date  for  the  publication  of  the 
Letters,  the  poet’s  twenty-fifth  year  (b.c.  18).  Pene¬ 
lope,  the  faithful  wife,  whom  the  twenty  years’  absence 
of  her  lord  has  not  been  able  to  estrange,  writes  to  the 
wandering  Ulysses;  Phyllis,  daughter  of  the  Thracian 
king  Sithon,  complains  of  the  long  delay  of  her  Athe¬ 
nian  lover,  Demophoon,  in  the  land  whither  he  had 
gone  to  prepare,  as  he  said,  for  their  marriage;  the  de¬ 
serted  Ariadne  sends  her  reproaches  after  Theseus; 
Medea,  with  mingled  threats  and  entreaties,  seeks  to 
turn  Jason  from  the  new  marriage  which  he  is  contem¬ 
plating;  and  Dido,*  a  figure  which  Ovid  has  borrowed 
from  the  beautiful  episode  of  the  “  iEneid,”  alternately 
appeals  to  the  pity  and  denounces  the  perfidy  of  her 
Trojan  lover.  These  are  some  of  the  subjects  which  the 
poet  has  chosen.  The  idea  of  the  book,  it  must  be  con¬ 
fessed,  is  not  a  peculiarly  happy  one.  Sometimes  it 
has  an  almost  ludicrous  air.  There  is  an  absurdity,  as 
Bayle  suggests,  in  the  notion  of  the  post  reaching  to 
Naxos,  the  desolate  island  from  whose  shore  Ariadne 
has  seen  the  departing  sails  of  the  treacherous  Theseus. 
Nor  is  there  even  an  attempt  at  giving  any  coloring 
appropriate  to  the  time  and  place  to  which  the  several 
letters  are  supposed  to  belong.  Penelope,  Dido,  Ari¬ 
adne  are  all  alike  refined  and  well-educated  persons, 
just  like  the  great  Roman  ladies  whom  the  poet  used 


*  It  may  be  as  well  to  remind  the  reader  that  though  the  le¬ 
gend  of  Dido  is  much  older  than  the  “  JEneid,”  the  introduction 
of  iEneas  into  it  is  Virgil’s  own  idea— a  gross  anachronism,  by 
the  way,  with  which,  however,  no  reader  of  the  fourth  book  of 
the  “  ACneid  ”  will  reproach  him. 


THE  LOVE-POEMS. 


35 

to  meet  in  daily  life.  This  artificial  writing,  abso¬ 
lutely  without  all  that  is  called  realism,  was  character¬ 
istic  of  Ovid’s  age,  and  we  cannot  make  it  a  special 
charge  against  him.  But  it  has  certainly  a  wearying 
effect,  which  is  increased  by  the  sameness  and  mono¬ 
tony  of  the  subject-matter  of  the  Epistles.  The  names 
are  different,  the  circumstances  are  changed  according 
as  the  several  stories  demand,  but  the  theme  is  ever  the 
same — love,  now  angry  and  full  of  reproaches,  now  ten¬ 
der  and  condescending  to  entreaty.  Nor  is  that  love 
the  “maiden  passion”  which  has  supplied  in  mod¬ 
em  times  the  theme  of  poems  and  romances  without 
number.  It  is  the  fierce  emotion,  guilty  or  wrathful, 
though  sometimes,  it  must  be  allowed,  melting  into 
genuine  pathos  and  tenderness,  of  betrayed  maidens 
and  outraged  wives.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  though 
the  theme  is  the  same,  the  variety  of  expression  is  end¬ 
less.  The  skill  with  which  Ovid  continues,  again  and 
again,  to  say  the  same  thing  without  repeating  him¬ 
self,  is  astonishing.  In  this  respect  no  poet  has  ever 
shown  himself  more  thoroughly  a  master  of  his  art. 
Feeling,  too,  real  though  not  elevated,  often  makes  it¬ 
self  felt  in  the  midst  of  the  artificial  sentiment;  if  the 
style  is  disfigured  with  conceits,  it  is  always  exquisitely 
polished;  the  language  is  universally  easy  and  trans¬ 
parent,  and  the  verse  an  unbroken  flow  of  exquisite 
melody. 

Of  all  the  Epistles,  the  one  which  for  purity  and  ten¬ 
derness  most  commends  itself  to  our  taste,  is  that  ad¬ 
dressed  by  the  Thessalian  princess  Laodamia  to  her 
husband  Protesilaus.  He  had  joined  the  expedition  of 
the  Greeks  against  Troy,  and  was  the  destined  victim 
ot  the  prophecy  which  foretold  the  death  of  the  Greek 
chieftain  who  should  be  the  first  to  leap  from  the  ships 


OVID > 


26 

on  to  the  Trojan  shore.  Readers  of  Wordsworth  will 
remember  the  beautiful  poem  in  which  he  has  treated 
that  part  of  the  legend  which  relates  how  Jove  granted 
to  the  prayers  of  the  widowed  queen  that  her  hero 
should  for  a  brief  space  of  time  revisit  the  earth. 
Laodamia  had  heard  that  her  husband  and  his  com¬ 
panions  were  detained  at  Aulis  by  contrary  winds. 
“  Why  had  not  the  winds  been  contrary  when  he  left 
his  home?  They  had  been  too  favorable  for  the  sailor, 
not  for  the  lover.  As  long  as  she  could  see,  she  had 
watched  the  departing  sails.  When  they  vanished,  she 
had  seemed  to  pass  from  life,  and  could  wish  that  she 
never  had  been  recalled — for  her,  life  was  sorrow.  How 
could  she  wear  her  royal  robes  while  her  husband  was 
enduring  the  toil  and  wretchedness  of  war?  Accursed 
beauty  of  Paris  that  had  wrought  such  woe !  Accursed 
vengence  of  Menelaus  that  would  be  fatal  to  so  many  1 
How  foolish  the  enterprise  of  the  Greeks!  Surely  the 
man  who  had  dared  to  carry  off  the  daughter  of  Tyn- 
darus  would  be  able  to  keep  her.  And  there  was  some 
dreadful  Hector  of  whom  she  had  heard ;  let  Protesilaus 
beware  of  him.  Let  him  always  fight  as  one  who  re¬ 
membered  that  there  was  a  wife  waiting  for  him  at 
home.  It  was  Menelaus  who  had  been  wronged;  let  it 
be  Menelaus  who  should  exact  vengeance.  A  rumor 
had  reached  her  that  the  first  chief  to  touch  Trojan  so-il 
must  fall.  Let  Protesilaus  be  careful  not  to  be  he. 
Rather  let  his  be  the  last  of  the  thousand  ships — the  last 
in  going,  but  the  first  to  return.  Now  she  mourned  for 
him  night  and  day.  The  dreams  in  which  she  hoped  to 
meet  her  husband  did  but  bring  back  his  pale  image. 
This  made  her  pray  to  the  gods  and  burn  incense  on 
every  altar  in  Thessaly.  When  would  he  return  and 
tell  the  tale  of  his  deeds?  But  the  hope  suggested  the 


THE  LOVE-POEMS. 


27 


dreadful  thought  of  Troy  and  the  dangers  of  the  sea. 
The  sea,  indeed,  seemed  to  forbid  their  journey.  If  it 
was  so,  what  madness  to  go!  The  delay  was  not  an 
accident;  it  was  an  intimation  from  heaven.  Let  them 
return  while  they  could.  But  no!  She  will  recall  the 
wish.  She  will  pray  for  favorable  winds.  If  only  it 
was  not  so  far  away!”  And  then  she  contrasts  the  sor¬ 
rows  of  her  own  loneliness  with  what  she  cannot  but 
think  the  happier  lot  of  those  who  were  shut  up  in  the 
walls  of  Troy : 

“  Ah!  Trojan  women  (happier  far  than  we), 

Fain  in  your  lot  would  I  partaker  be ! 

If  ye  must  mourn  o’er  some  dead  hero’s  bier, 

And  all  the  dangers  of  the  war  are  near, 

With  you  at  least  the  fair  and  youthful  bride 
May  arm  her  husband,  in  becoming  pride; 

Lift  the  fierce  helmet  to  his  gallant  brow, 

And,  with  a  trembling  hand,  his  sword  bestow; 

With  fingers  all  unused  the  weapon  brace, 

_  And  gaze  with  fondest  love  upon  his  face ! 

How  sweet  to  both  this  office  she  will  make — 

How  many  a  kiss  receive — how  many  take ! 

WTien  all  equipped  she  leads  him  from  the  door, 

Her  fond  commands  how  oft  repeating  o’er: 

‘  Return  victorious,  and  thine  arms  enshrine — 

Return,  beloved,  to  these  arms  of  mine!’ 

Nor  shall  these  fond  commands  be  all  in  vain, 

Her  hero-husband  will  return  again. 

Amid  the  battle’s  din  and  clashing  swords 
He  still  will  listen  to  her  parting  words; 

And,  if  more  prudent,  still,  ah !  not  less  brave, 

One  thought  for  her  and  for  his  home  will  save.” 

The  letter  of  Sappho,  the  famous  poetess  of  Lesbos, 
to  Phaon,  a  beautiful  youth  who  had  betrayed  her  love, 
is  founded  on  a  less  pleasing  story — a  story,  too,  which 
has  no  foundation  either  in  the  remains — miserably 
gcanty,  alas’  but  full  of  beauty— of  the  great  singer,  or 


28 


OVID, 


in  any  authentic  records  of  her  life.  It  might  well  have 
been  passed  over  had  it  not  been  illustrated  by  the  genius 
of  Pope.  Pope  never  attempted  the  part  of  a  faith¬ 
ful  translator;  but  his  verse  has  a  freedom  and  a  glow 
which  leave  the  faithful  translator  in  despair.  And  his 
polished  antithetical  style  is  as  suitable,  it  should  be 
said,  to  the  artificial  and  rhetorical  verse  of  Ovid,  as  it 
is  incongruous  with  the  simple  grandeur  of  Homer.  It 
is  thus  that  he  renders  the  passage  in  which  Sappho 
announces  her  intention  to  try  the  famous  remedy  for 
hopeless  love,  the  leap  from  the  Leucadian  rock ; 

“  A  spring  there  is,  where  silver  waters  show, 

Clear  as  a  glass,  the  shining  sands  below; 

A  flowery  lotus  spreads  its  arms  above, 

Shades  all  the  banks,  and  seems  itself  a  grove: 

Eternal  greens  the  mossy  margin  grace, 

Watched  by  the  sylvan  genius  of  the  place. 

Here  as  I  lay,  and  swelled  with  tears  the  flood, 

Before  my  sight  a  watery  virgin  stood: 

She  stood  and  cried,  ‘  Oh,  you  that  love  in  vain, 

Fly  hence,  and  seek  the  fair  Leucadian  main  1 
There  stands  a  rock,  from  whose  impending  steep 
Apollo’s  fame  surveys  the  rolling  deep; 

There  injured  lovers,  leaping  from  above, 

Their  flames  extinguished  and  forgot  to  love. 

Deucalion  once  with  hopeless  fury  burned, 

In  vain  he  loved,  relentless  Pyrrha  scorned: 

But  when  from  hence  he  plunged  into  the  main, 

Deucalion  scorned  and  Pyrrha  loved  in  vain. 

Hence,  Sappho,  haste !  from  high  Leucadia  throw 
Thy  wretched  weight,  nor  dread  the  deeps  below.’ 

She  spoke,  and  vanished  with  the  voice— I  rise, 

And  silent  tears  fall  trickling  from  my  eyes. 

I  go,  ye  nymphs,  those  rocks  and  seas  to  prove: 

And  much  I  fear;  but  ah!  how  much  I  love! 

I  go,  ye  nymphs,  where  furious  love  inspires; 

Let  female  fears,  submit  to  female  fires. 

To  rocks  and  seas  I  fly  from  Phaon’s  hate, 

And  hope  from  seas  and  rocks  a  milder  fate, 


THE  LOVE- POEMS. 


29 


Ye  gentle  gales,  below  my  body  blow. 

And  softly  lay  me  on  the  waves  below ! 

And  then,  kind  Love,  my  sinking  limbs  sustain, 

Spread  thy  soft  wings,  and  waft  me  o’er  the  main, 

Nor  let  a  lover’s  death  the  guiltless  flood  profane! 

On  Phoebus’  shrine  my  harp  I’ll  then  bestow. 

And  this  inscription  shall  be  placed  below — 

‘  Here  she  who  sung  to  him  that  did  inspire, 

Sappho  to  Phoebus  consecrates  her  lyre ; 

What  suits  with  Sappho,  Phoebus,  suits  with  thee — 

The  gift,  the  giver,  and  the  god  agree.’  ” 

We  have  “The  Loves,”  as  has  been  said,  in  a  second 
edition.  “Five  books,”  says  the  poet  in  his  prefatory 
quatrain,  “have  been  reduced  to  three.”  “Though 
you  find  no  pleasure  in  reading  us,  ”  the  volumes  are 
made  to  say  to  the  reader,  “we  shall  at  least,  when 
thus  diminished  by  two,  vex  you  less.”  A  question  im¬ 
mediately  presents  itself,  Who  was  the  Corinna  whom 
he  celebrates  in  these  poems?  It  has  often  been  argued, 
and  that  by  critics  of  no  small  authority,  that  she  was 
no  less  famous  a  personage  than  Julia,  daughter  of  the 
Emperor  Augustus  by  his  first  wife  Scribonia.  This 
indeed  is  expressly  stated  as  a  fact  by  Sidonius  Apol- 
linaris,  a  poet  of  the  fifth  century,  and  a  somewhat  dis¬ 
tinguished  personage,  first  as  a  politician,  and  afterwards 
as  the  bishop  of  Clermont  in  Auvergne.  Of  Julia  the 
briefest  account  will  be  the  best.  She  was  wife  suc¬ 
cessively  of  Marcus  Marcellus,  nephew  to  Augustus;  of 
Marcus  Yipsanius  Agrippa;  and  of  Tiberius,  afterwards 
emperor.  This  last  union  was  most  unhappy.  Tiberius 
had  been  compelled  to  divorce  a  wife  whom  he  dearly 
loved,  and  he  found  himself  bound  to  a  woman  whose 
profligacy  was  conspicuous  even  in  a  profligate  age. 
After  a  short  union  he  retired  into  a  voluntary  exile; 
and  Augustus  then  became  aware  of  what  all  Rome 
had  long  known,  that  his  daughter  was  an  abandoned 


30 


OVID. 


woman.  He  banished  her  from  Italy,  and  kept  her  in 
a  rigorous  imprisonment,  which  was  never  relaxed  till 
her  death.  There  is  nothing,  therefore,  in  the  character 
of  Julia  that  is  inconsistent  with  her  being  the  Corinna 
of  Ovid’s  poems.  We  can  even  find  some  confirmation 
of  the  theory.  Corinna,  it  is  evident,  did  not  belong  to 
that  class  of  freed-women  which  included  the  Delia  of 
Tibullus  and  the  Cynthia  of  Propertius.  Sometimes 
we  are  led  to  believe  that  she  was  a  lady  of  high  social 
position.  Her  apartments  were  guarded  by  a  eunuch — 
not  a  common  circumstance  in  Rome,  and  obviously 
the  mark  of  a  wealthy  household.  That  she  was  mar¬ 
ried  the  poet  expressly  states.  And  a  curious  coinci¬ 
dence  has  been  pointed  out  which,  though  it  does  not 
go  very  far,  may  be  allowed  to  make  for  the  identifica¬ 
tion  with  Julia.  This  princess  had  lost  much  of  her 
hair  through  the  unsparing  use  of  dyes.*  And  we  find 
Ovid  remonstrating  with  Corinna  on  her  folly  in  pro¬ 
ducing  in  the  same  way  the  same  disfigurement: 

“  No  weeds  destroyed  them  with  their  fatal  juice, 

Nor  canst  thou  witches’  magic  charms  accuse, 

Nor  rival’s  love,  nor  dire  enchantments  blame, 

Nor  envy’s  blasting  tongue,  nor  fever’s  flame; 

The  mischief  by  thy  own  fair  hands  was  wrought, 

Nor  dost  thou  suffer  for  another’s  fault. 

How  oft  I  bade  thee,  but  in  vain,  beware 
The  venomed  essence  that  destroyed  thy  hair! 

Now  with  new  arts  thou  shalt  thy  friends  amuse, 

And  curls,  of  German  captives  borrowed,  use. 

Drusus  to  Rome  their  vanquised  nation  sends, 

And  the  fair  slave  to  thee  her  tresses  lends.”— D. 


*  She  sought,  it  would  seem,  to  change  the  dark  tresses  which 
nature  had  given  her  into  the  blond  locks  which  southern  nations 
so  admire,  injured  them  in  the  effort,  and  had  to  replace  them 
by  purchase.  The  vagaries  of  fashion  continually  repeat  them 
selves, 


THE  LOVE-POEMS. 


81 


But  there  is  a  good  deal  to  be  said  on  the  other  side.  " 
The  testimony  of  Sidonius  Apollinaris,  after  an  interval 
of  nearly  five  centuries,  is  worth  very  little.  We  have 
no  hint  of  any  contemporary  authorities  on  which  he 
founded  it;  and  tradition,  when  it  has  to  pass  through 
so  many  generations — generations,  too,  that  suffered  so 
much  disturbance  and  change — stands  for  next  to  no¬ 
thing.  If  some  passages,  again,  favor  the  notion  that 
Corinna  was  Julia,  there  are  others  which  tell  against 
it.  Ovid  could  never  have  ventured  to  use — would  not 
even  have  dreamt  of  expressing  in  words — to  Agrippa 
or  Tiberius,  the  insolent  threats  which  he  vents  against 
the  husband  of  Corinna.  Nor  is  it  possible  to  imagine 
that  Julia,  however  profligate,  could  ever  have  been 
even  tempted  to  the  avarice  with  which  Ovid  reproaches 
his  mistress,  when  he  remonstrates  against  the  prefer¬ 
ence  that  she  has  shown  for  some  wealthy  soldier  just 
returned  from  the  wars.  Then,  again,  the  poems  were 
read  in  public — an  absolutely  impossible  audacitjr,  if 
there  had  been  the  faintest  suspicion  that  they  referred 
to  so  exalted  a  personage  as  the  emperor’s  daughter. 
The  writer  of  the  verse  himself  tells  us  that  it  was  not 
known  who  was  the  theme  of  his  song,  and  he  speaks 
of  some  woman  who  was  going  about  boasting  that  she 
was  Ovid’s  Corinna. 

Of  the  subject-matter  of  “The  Loves”  there  is  little 
to  be  said.  The  passion  which  inspires  the  verse  is 
coarser  and  more  brutal  than  that  of  his  rival  poets, 
even  when  this  shows  itself  in  its  worst  phases.  It  has 
nothing  of  the  fervor  of  Propertius,  the  tenderness  of 
Tibullus.  It  does  not  spring  from  any  depth  of  feeling. 

It  is  real,  but  its  reality  is  of  the  basest,  most  literal  sort. 
That  he  describes  an  actual  amour  is  only  too  manifest, 
but  that  this  was  in  any  true  sense  of  the  words  “an 


82 


onn. 


affair  of  the  heart  ”  may  well  be  doubted.  But  then, 
again,  he  shows  an  imcomparable  skill  in  expression; 
he  invests  even  the  lowest  things  with  a  certain  grace. 
His  wit  and  fancy  “sparkle  on  the  stye.”  If  he  lets  us 
get  away  for  a  moment  from  the  mire — if,  with  the  deli¬ 
cate  fancy  that  never  fails  him,  he  tells  us  some  legend 
that  “boys  and  virgins”  need  not  blush  to  read — he  is 
charming.  There  never  was  a  more  subtle  and  inge¬ 
nious  master  of  language,  and  it  is  a  grievous  pity  that 
he  should  so  often  have  used  it  so  ill.  Our  specimen 
of  his  “Loves”  must  be  taken  from  the  episodes  rather 
than  from  the  ordinary  course  of  the  poems.  The  fol¬ 
lowing,  however,  will  not  offend.  The  poet  renounces 
the  vain  struggle  which  he  has  been  waging  against 
love : 


I  yield,  great  Love !  my  former  crimes  forgive, 

Forget  my  rebel  thoughts,  and  let  me  live: 

No  need  of  force:  I  Avillingly  obey, 

And  now,  unharmed,  shall  prove  no  glorious  prey. 

So  take  thy  mother's  doves,  thy  myrtle  crown, 

And  for  thy  chariot  Mars  will  lend  his  own ; 

There  shalt  thou  sit  in  thy  triumphal  pride, 

And  whilst  glad  shouts  resound  on  every  side. 

Thy  gentle  hands  thy  mother’s  doves  shall  guide. 

And  then,  to  make  thy  glorious  pomp  and  state, 

A  train  of  sighing  youths  and  maids  shall  wait, 

Yet  none  complain  of  an  unhappy  fate. 

Then  Modesty,  with  veils  thrown  o’er  her  face, 

Now  doubly  blushing  at  her  own  disgrace; 

Then  sober  thoughts,  and  whatsoe’er  disdains 
Love’s  power,  shall  feel  his  power,  and  wear  his  chain 
Then  all  shall  fear,  all  bow,  yet  all  rejoice — 

‘Io  triumphel’  is  the  public  voice. 

Thy  constant  guards,  soft  fancy,  hope,  and  fear, 
Anger,  and  soft  caresses  shall  be  there: 

By  these  strong  guards  are  gods  and  men  o’erthrown, 
These  conquer  for  thee,  Love,  and  these  alone: 


THE  LOVE*  POE  MS. 


83 


Thy  mother,  from  the  sky,  thy  pomp  shall  grace, 

And  scatter  sweetest  roses  in  thy  face. 

Then  glorious  Love  shall  ride,  profusely  dressed 
With  all  the  richest  jewels  of  the  East, 

Rich  gems  thy  quiver,  and  thy  wheels  infold, 

And  hide  the  poorness  of  the  baser  gold.”— D. 

In  tlie  following  the  poet  claims  a  purity  and  fidelity 
for  his  affection  with  which  it  is  impossible  to  credit 
him: 


"Take,  dear,  a  servant  bound  for  ever;  take 
A  heart  whose  troth  no  falsehood  e’er  shall  break. 

’Tis  true  but  simple  knightly  birth  is  mine; 

I  claim  no  splendid  names  to  grace  my  line ; 

My  lields  no  countless  tribe  of  oxen  ploughs, 

And  scant  the  means  a  frugal  home  allows. 

Now  Phoebus  aid  me,  and  the  Muses  nine — 

Bacchus,  and  Love,  sweet  Lord,  who  makes  me  thine, 
Faith  unsurpassed,  and  life  exempt  from  blame, 

And  simple  Modesty,  and  blushing  Shame; 

No  trifler  I;  my  heart  no  rivals  share: 

Thee  will  I  make,  be  sure,  my  lifelong  care ; 

With  thee  will  spend  what  years  the  Fates  shall  give, 

And  when  thou  first  shalt  suffer,  cease  to  live.” 

Another  little  poem  has  been  elegantly  paraphrased 
and  adapted  to  modern  manners  by  Mr.  A.  A.  Brod- 
ribb.*  It  will  remind  the  reader  of  a  pretty  passage  in 
Mr.  Tennyson’s  “Miller’s  Daughter 

The  Ring. 

**  Sign  of  my  too  presumptuous  flame, 

To  fairest  Celia  haste,  nor  linger, 

And  may  she  gladly  breathe  my  name, 

And  gaily  put  thee  on  her  finger  1 


*  Lays  from  Latin  Lyrics.  By  F.  W.  Hummel  and  A.  A.  Brod- 
ribb.  Longmans:  1376. 


arm 


84 

Suit  her  as  I  myself,  that  she 
May  fondle  thee  with  murmured  blessing; 

Caressed  by  Celia !  Who  could  be 
Unenvious  of  such  sweet  caressing? 

Had  I  Medea’s  magic  art, 

Or  Proteus’  power  of  transformation, 

Then  would  I  blithely  play  thy  part, 

The  happiest  trinket  in  creation  1 

Oh!  on  her  bosom  I  would  fall, 

Her  finger  guiding  all  too  lightly; 

Or  else  be  magically  small, 

Fearing  to  be  discarded  nightly. 

And  I  her  ruby  lips  would  kiss 
(What  mortal’s  fortune  could  be  better?) 

As  oft  allowed  to  seal  my  bliss 
As  she  desires  to  seal  a  letter. 

Now  go,  these  are  delusions  bright 
Of  idle  Fancy’s  idlest  scheming; 

Tell  her  to  read  the  token  right — 

Tell  her  how  sweet  is  true  love’s  dreaming.” 

But  the  chief  ornaments  of  the  book  are  two  elegies, 
properly  so  called, — one  of  a  sportive,  the  other  of  a 
serious  character.  Catullus,  a  predecessor  in  the  poetic 
art,  of  whom  Ovid  speaks  with  respect,  had  lamented, 
in  an  exquisite  little  poem  which  must  always  remain  a 
model  for  such  compositions,  the  death  of  the  sparrow 
which  Lesbia,  his  lady-love,  “loved  more  than  her  own 
eyes.”  In  a  poem  which,  though  not  so  graceful  as 
that  of  the  older  writer,  and  scarcely  even  pretending 
to  pajthos,  has  many  merits,  Ovid  commemorates  the 
death  of  his  own  Corinna’s  parrot : 

“  Our  parrot,  sent  from  India’s  farthest  shore, 

Our  parrot,  prince  of  mimics,  is  no  more. 

Throng  to  his  burial,  pious  tribes  of  air, 

With  rigid  claw  your  tender  faces  tear! 


THE  LOVE-POEMS. 


35 


Your  ruffled  plumes,  like  mourners’  tresses,  rend, 

And  all  your  notes,  like  funeral  trumpets,  blend! 

Mourn  all  that  cleave  the  liquid  skies,  but  chief 
Beloved  turtle,  lead  the  general  grief, 

Through  long  harmonious  days  the  parrot’s  friend, 

In  mutual  faith  still  loyal  to  the  end ! 

What  boots  that  faith?  those  splendid  hues  and  strange? 
That  voice  so  skilled  its  various  notes  to  change? 

What  to  have  won  my  gentle  lady’s  grace? 

Thou  diest,  hapless  glory  of  thy  race. 

Red  joined  with  saffron  in  thy  beak  was  seen, 

And  green  thy  wings  beyond  the  emerald’s  sheen; 

Nor  ever  lived  on  earth  a  wiser  bird, 

With  lisping  voice  to  answer  all  he  heard. 

’Twas  envy  slew  thee;  all  averse  to  strife. 

One  love  of  chatter  filled  thy  peaceful  life: 

For  ever  satisfied  with  scantiest  fare, 

Small  time  for  food  that  busy  tongue  could  spare. 
Walnuts  and  sleep-producing  poppies  gave 
Thy  simple  diet,  and  thy  drink  the  wave. 

Long  lives  the  hovering  vulture,  long  the  kite 
Pursues  through  air  the  circles  of  his  flight; 

Many  the  years  the  noisy  jackdaws  know. 

Prophets  of  rainfall;  and  the  boding  crow 
Waits,  still  unscathed  by  armed  Minerva’s  hate, 

Three  ages  three  times  told,  a  tardy  fate. 

But  he,  our  prattler  from  earth’s  farthest  shore, 

Our  human  tongue’s  sweet  image,  is  no  more. 

Thus  still  the  ravening  fates  our  best  devour, 

And  spare  the  mean  till  life’s  extremest  hour. 

Why  tell  the  prayers  my  lady  prayed  in  vain, 

Borne  by  the  stormy  south  wind  o’er  the  main? 

The  seventh  dawn  had  come,  the  last  for  thee, 

With  empty  distaff  stood  the  fatal  Three. 

Yet  still  from  failing  throat  thy  accents  rung, 

Fax-ewell,  Corinna!  cried  thy  dying  tongue. 

There  stands  a  grove  with  dark -green  ilex  crowned 
Beneath  the  Elysian  hill,  and  all  around 
With  turf  undying  shines  the  verdant  ground. 

There  dwells,  if  true  the  tale,  the  pious  race — 

Ail  evil  birds  are  banished  from  the  place; 


36 


OVID. 


There  harmless  swans  unbounded  pasture  find; 

There  dwells  the  phoenix,  single  of  his  kind; 

The  peacock  spreads  his  splendid  plumes  in  air, 

The  kissing  doves  sit  close,  an  amorous  pair; 

There  in  their  woodland  home  a  guest  allowed, 

Our  parrot  charms  the  pious  listening  crowd. 

Beneath  a  mound,  of  justly  measured  size, 

Small  tombstone,  briefest  epitaph,  he  lies, 

‘  His  mistress'  darling  ’—that  this  stone  may  show— 

The  prince  of  feathered  speakers  lies  below.” 

The  other  elegy  has  for  its  subject  the  death  of  the 
poet  Tibullus; 

“If  bright  Aurora  mourned  for  Memnon’s  fate, 

Or  the  fair  Thetis  wept  Achilles  slain, 

And  the  sad  sorrows  that  on  mortals  wait 
Can  ever  move  celestial  hearts  with  pain— 

Come,  doleful  Elegy!  too  just  a  name! 

Unbind  thy  tresses  fair,  in  loose  attire, 

For  he,  thy  bard,  the  herald  of  thy  fame, 

Tibullus,  burns  on  the  funereal  pyre. 

Ah,  lifeless  corse!  Lo!  Venus’ boy  draws  near 
With  upturned  quiver  and  with  shattered  bow, 

His  torch  extinguished,  see  him  toward  the  bier 
With  drooping  wings  disconsolately  go. 

He  smites  his  heaving  breast  with  cruel  blow, 

Those  straggling  locks,  his  neck  all  streaming  round, 
Receive  the  tears  that  fastly  trickling  flow, 

While  sobs  convulsive  from  his  lips  resound. 

In  guise  like  this,  lulus,  when  of  yore 
His  dear  iEneas  died,  he  sorrowing  went; 

Now  Venus  wails  as  when  the  raging  boar 
The  tender  thigh  of  her  Adonis  rent. 

We  bards  are  named  the  gods’  peculiar  care; 

Nay,  some  declare  that  poets  are  divine; 

Yet  forward  death  no  holy  thing  can  spare, 

’Round  all  his  dismal  arms  he  dares  entwine. 


THE  LOVE-POEMS. 


Did  Orpheus’  mother  aid,  or  Linus’  sire? 

That  one  subdued  fierce  lions  by  his  song 
Availed  not;  and,  they  say,  with  plaintive  lyre 
The  god  mourned  Linus,  woods  and  glades  among. 

Meeonides,  from  whose  perennial  lay 
Flow  the  rich  fonts  of  the  Pierian  wave 
To  wet  the  lips  of  bards,  one  dismal  day 
Sent  down  to  Orcus  and  the  gloomy  grave — 

Him,  too,  Avernus  holds  in  drear  employ; 

Only  his  songs  escape  the  greedy  pile ; 

His  work  remains — the  mighty  wars  of  Troy, 

And  the  slow  web,  unwove  by  nightly  guile. 

Live  a  pure  life; — yet  death  remains  thy  doom: 

Be  pious;— ere  from  sacred  shrines  you  rise, 

Death  drags  you  heedless  to  the  hollow  tomb  I 
.  Confide  in  song— lo!  there  Tibullus  lies. 

Scarce  of  so  great  a  soul,  thus  lowly  laid, 

Enough  remains  to  fill  this  little  urn ; 

O  holy  bard  I  were  not  the  flames  afraid 
That  hallowed  corse  thus  ruthlessly  to  bum? 

These  might  devour  the  heavenly  halls  that  shine 
With  gold— they  dare  a  villany  so  deep: 

She  turned  who  holds  the  Erycinian  shrine, 

And  there  are  some  who  say  she  turned  to  weep. 

Yet  did  the  base  soil  of  a  stranger  land 
Not  hold  him  nameless ;  as  the  spirit  fled 
His  mother  closed  his  eyes  with  gentle  hand, 

And  paid  the  last  sad  tribute  to  the  dead. 

Here,  with  thy  wretched  mother’s  woe  to  wait. 

Thy  sister  came  with  loose  dishevelled  hair; 
Nemesis  kisses  thee,  and  thy  earlier  mate— 

They  watched  the  pyre  when  all  had  left  it  bare. 

Departing,  Delia  faltered,  ‘  Thou  wert  true’ 

The  Fates  were  cheerful  then,  when  I  was  thine:’ 
e  other,  ‘  Say,  what  hast  thou  here  to  do?’ 

Dying,  he  clasped  his  failing  han4  in  mine. 


$8 


OVID. 


Ah,  yet  if  any  part  of  us  remains 
But  name  and  shadow,  Albius  is  not  dead; 

And  thou,  Catullus,  in  Elysian  plains, 

With  Calvus  see  the  ivy  crown  his  head. 

Thou,  Gallus,  prodigal  of  life  and  blood, 

If  false  the  charge  of  amity  betrayed, 

And  aught  remains  across  the  Stygian  flood, 

Shalt  meet  him  yonder  with  thy  happy  shade. 

Refined  Tibullus!  thou  art  joined  to  those 
Living  in  calm  communion  with  the  blest; 

In  peaceful  urn  thy  quiet  bones  repose — 

May  earth  lie  lightly  where  thy  ashes  rest.” 

Of  the  “Art  of  Love”  the  less,  perhaps,  that  is  said 
the  better.  The  poet  himself  warns  respectable  per¬ 
sons  to  have  nothing  to  do  with  his  pages,  and  the 
warning  is  amply  justified  by  their  contents.  It  has, 
however,  some  of  the  brilliant  episodes  which  Ovid 
introduces  with  such  effect.  His  own  taste,  and  the 
taste,  we  may  hope,  of  his  readers,  demanded  that  the 
base  level  of  sensuality  should  sometimes  be  left  for  a 
higher  flight  of  fancy.  The  description  of  Ariadne  in 
Naxos  is  as  brilliant  as  Titian’s  picture;  equally  vivid 
J  is  the  story  of  the  flight  of  Daedalus  and  his  son  Icarus 
on  the  wings  which  the  matchless  craftsman  had  made, 
and  of  the  fate  which  followed  the  over-daring  flight  of 
the  youth  through  regions  too  near  to  the  sun.  Then, 
again,  we  find  ever  and  anon  pictures  of  Roman  man¬ 
ners  which  may  amuse  without  offence.  Among  such 
are  Ovid’s  instructions  to  his  fair  readers  how  they 
may  most  becomingly  take  their  part  in  the  games  of 
chance  and  skill  which  were  popular  in  the  polite 
circles  of  Rome.  Among  these  games  he  mentions 
the  cubical  dice,  called  tesserce,  resembling  our  own 
Ip  shape,  and  similarly  marked.  of  the§0  ^ere 


THE  LOVE- POEMS. 


39 


Used  together;  and  it  was  customary  to  throw  them 
from  cups  of  a  conical  shape.  The  luckiest  throw  was 
“treble  sixes,”  and  was  honored  by  the  name  of 
Aphrodite  or  Venus.  The  worst  was  “treble  aces:” 
this  was  stigmatized  as  “the  dog.”  There  were  other 
dice  made  out  of  the  knuckle-bones  of  animals.  They 
were  called  tali.  (Our  own  popular  name  for  them  is 
“dibs.”)  These  were  used  either  in  the  same  way  as 
the  cubical  dice,  though  they  were  not  numbered  in 
the  same  way,  or  in  a  game  of  manual  skill  which  still 
survives  among  us,  where  the  player  throws  them 
and  catches  them  again,  or  performs  other  feats  of 
dexterity  with  them.  Besides  these  there  was  the 
game  of  the  “Robbers”  ( Ludus  Latrunculorum), 
played  with  pieces  made  of  glass  or  ivory,  which  has 
been  compared  with  chess,  but  was  probably  not  so 
complicated,  and  more  nearly  resembling  our  games 
of  “Fox  and  Geese”  and  “Military  Tactics.”  The 
game  of  the  “Fifteen  Lines”  must  have  been  very  like 
our  “Backgammon,”  as  the  moves  of  the  men  were 
determined  by  previous  throws  of  dice.  Ovid,  after 
recommending  his  readers  to  practice  a  graceful  play¬ 
ing  at  the  games,  wisely  warns  them  that  it  is  still 
more  important  that  they  should  learn  to  keep  their 
temper.  The  suitor  he  advises  to  allow  his  fair  an¬ 
tagonist  to  win,  a  counsel  doubtless  often  followed  by 
those  who  have  never  had  the  advantage — or,  we  should 
rather  say,  the  disadvantage— of  studying  Ovid’s  pre¬ 
cepts.  Equally  familiar  will  be  the  device  of  a  present 
of  fruit  brought  by  a  slave-boy  in  a  rustic  basket, 
which  the  lover  will  declare  has  been  conveyed  from 
a  country  garden,  though  he  will  probably  have  bought 
it  in  the  neighboring  street.  A  certain  sagacity  must 
be  allowed  to  the  counsel  that  the  lover,  when  his  lady 


40 


(>VU). 


is  Kick,  mmt  not  take  upon  him?  '  If  the  odious  office  of 
forbidding  her  a  favorite  dish;  and  will,  if  poeeiblc, 
Jjand  over  to  a  rival  the  office,  equally  odious,  of  ad 
m blistering  a  nauseous  medicine.  The  rceommenda 
tion  not  to  be  too  particular  in  inquiring  about  age  1m 
equally  sagacious.  It  is  curious  to  observe  that  Lord 
Ryron’s  expressed  aversion  to  seeing  women  eat  wan 
not  unknown  to  tile  Roman  youth.  Ovid,  wlio,  to  do 
him  justice,  never  praises  wine,  hints  that  drinking 
was  not  equally  distasteful. 

The  “  itemed ies  of  Love"  may  be  dismissed  will) 
a  still  briefer  notice.  Like  the  “Art  of  Love,”  it  in 
relieved  by  Home  beautiful  digressions,  When  it  keep# 
clone  to  itH  subject,  it  in,  to  say  the  least,  not  edifying. 
The  “  Remedies,”  indeed,  are  for  the  moat  part  a  a  bad 
as  the  disease,  tliougii  we  mustexc  pit  hat  moat  )  expect¬ 
able  maxim  that  “idleness  is  the  parent  of  love,"  witli 
the  poet's  practical  application  of  it.  One  specimen  of 
these  two  books  shall  aulflce.  It  is  of  the  episodical 
kind, — a  brilliant  panegyric  on  the  young  Occur,  Cuius, 
son  of  Augustus's  daughter  Julia,  wlio  wiim  then  pre¬ 
paring  to  take  the  command  of  an  expedition  against 
theParthians.  Gross  as  is  tlie  flattery,  it  is  perhaps  Jess 
offensive  than  usual.  The  young  Cains  died  before  his 
abilities  could  be  proved;  but  the  precocious  genius  of 
the  family  was  a  fact.  Caius  was  then  of  the  very 
same  age  at  which  his  grandfather  had  first  commanded 
an  army. 

“  Once  more  our  Prince  prepares  to  make  us  glad, 

And  the  remaining  East  to  Homo  will  add. 

Rejoice,  ye  Roman  soldiers,  In  your  urn; 

Your  ensigns  from  the  Parthlans  shall  return; 

And  the  slain  Crass!  shah  no  longer  mourn  I 
A  youth  Is  sent  those  trophies  to  demand, 

And  bears  his  father’s  thunder  In  his  hand: 


DOMESTIC  LIFE— BANISHMENT.  41 

• 

Doubt  not  th’  imperial  boy  in  wars  unseen; 

In  childhood  all  of  Cseser’s  race  are  men. 

Celestial  seeds  shoot  out  before  their  day, 

Prevent  their  years,  and  brook:  no  dull  delay. 

Thus  infant  Hercules  the  snakes  did  press. 

And  in  his  cradle  did  his  sire  confess. 

Bacchus,  a  boy,  yet  like  a  hero  fought, 

And  early  spoils  from  conquered  India  brought. 

Thus  you  your  father’s  troops  shall  lead  to  fight, 

And  thus  shall  vanquish  in  your  father's  sight. 

These  rudiments  you  to  your  lineage  owe; 

Born  to  increase  your  titles  as  you  grow. 

Brethren  you  lead,  avenge  your  brethren  slain; 

You  have  a  father,  and  his  right  maintain. 

Armed  by  country’s  parent  and  your  own. 

Redeem  your  country  and  restore  his  throne.”— D. 

The  date  of  the  poem  is  fixed  by  this  passage  for  the 
year  b.c.  1,  as  that  of  the  “  Remedies  of  Love”  is 
settled  for  a.d.  1  by  an  allusion  to  the  actual  war  in 
P&rtbia,  which  was  at  its  height  in  that  year,  and  was 
finished  by  a  peace  in  the  year  following. 


CHAPTER  III. 

DOMESTIC  LIFE — BANISHMENT. 

About  Ovid’s  private  life  between  his  twentieth  and 
fiftieth  years  there  is  little  to  be  recorded  Two  mar¬ 
riages  have  already  been  spoken  of.  Be  had  prob¬ 
ably  reached  middle  life  when  he  married  for  the 
third  time.  The  probability,  indeed,  consists  in  the 
difficulty  we  have  in  believing  that  the  husband  of  a 
wife  whom  he  really  respected  and  loved  should  have 
published  so  disreputable  a  book  as  the  “Art  of  Love,” 
for  even  to  the  lax  judgment  of  Roman  society  it 
seemed  disreputable.  A  feeling,  perhaps  a  hint  from 


or m 


42 

high  quarters,  that  he  had  gone  too  far  —  a  con¬ 
sciousness,  we  may  hope,  that  he  was  capable  of  better 
things — had  made  him  turn  to  work  of  a  more  elevated 
kind.  A  good  marriage  may  have  been  part  of  his 
plan  for  restoring  hirpself  to  a  reputable  place  in 
society.  It  is  even  possible  to  imagine  that  a  genuine 
and  worthy  affection  may  have  been  one  of  the  causes 
that  operated  in  bringing  about  a  change.  A  much 
earlier  date,  indeed,  must  be  fixed,  if  we  suppose  that 
the  daughter  of  whom  Ovid  speaks  in  the  brief  sketch 
of  his  life  was  a  child  of  this  marriage.  This  daughter 
had  been  twice  married  at  the  time  of  his  banishment, 
when  he  was  in  his  fifty-second  year,  and  had  borne  a 
child  to  each  husband.  Roman  women  married  early, 
and  changed  their  husbands  quickly :  but,  in  any  case, 
it  is  not  likely  that  the  young  lady  could  have  been 
less  than  twenty.  It  seems,  however,  more  probable 
that  she  was  the  offspring  of  a  second  marriage.  In 
the  many  affectionate  letters  which  Ovid  addressed  to 
his  wife  after  his  banishment  no  mention  is  made  of 
a  child  and  grandchildren  in  whom  both  had  a  com¬ 
mon  interest.  It  is  impossible  to  suppose  that  a 
husband  who  anxiously  appeals  to  every  motive  in  a 
wife  which  could  help  to  keep  their  mutual  affection 
unimpaired  by  absence,  should  have  neglected  to  make 
use  of  what  was  obviously  the  most  powerful  of  all. 
There  is,  it  is  true,  a  letter  addressed  to  one  Perilla, 
written  by  Ovid  in  exile.  Dr.  Dyer,  the  learned 
author  of  the  article  “  O  vidius”  in  the  “  Dictionary  of 
Biography  and  Mythology,”  takes  it  for  granted  that 
this  Perilla  was  Ovid’s  daughter  by  his  third  wife. 
The  letter  does  not  bear  out  the  supposition.  It  will 
be  found  described  in  its  place.  Meanwhile,  it  is 
sufficient  to  say,  that  while  the  writer  enlarges  on  the 


DOMESTIC  LIFE—BAMSUMEtfT. 


48 


fact  that  lie  had  instructed  Perilla  in  the  art  of  poetry, 
he  does  not  say  a  word  which  indicates  a  closer  rela¬ 
tionship  than  that  of  master  and  pupih  Had  the 
poetess  been  his  daughter,  we  may  say  with  confidence 
that  Ovid  would  have  expressed  in  at  least  a  dozen 
ways  that  he  was  the  source  at  once  of  her  life  and  of 
her  song.  The  poet’s  wife  was  a  lady  of  good  position 
at  Rome.  In  early  years  she  had  been  what  may  be 
called  a  lady-in-waitiug  to  the  aunt  of  Augustus,  and 
at  the  same  time  an  intimate  friend  of  Marcia,  a  lady 
belonging  to  that  branch  of  the  Marcian  house  which 
bore  the  surname  of  Pliilippus.  On  Marcia’s  marriage 
with  Fabius  Maximus,  representative  of  the  great 
patrician  family  of  the  Fabii,  one  of  the  few  ancient 
houses  which  had  survived  to  the  daj^s  of  the  empire, 
this  friend  accompanied  her  to  her  new  home.  From 
there  Ovid  married  her.  The  union  lasted  till  his  death, 
with  much  mutual  affection.  When  it  has  been  added 
that  Ovid’s  town  mansion  was  close  to  the  Capitol,  and 
that  he  had  a  suburban  residence,  where  he  amused 
himself  with  the  pleasures  of  gardening.  Nothing  re¬ 
mains  to  be  told  about  this  portion  of  his  life. 

Some  time  after  his  third  marriage,  and  not  long 
before  the  great  catastrophe  which  we  are  about  to 
relate,  Ovid’s  father  died.  He  had  completed  his 
ninetieth  year.  His  mother  died  shortly  afterwards. 

“  Ah !  happy  they  and  timely  passed  away 
Ere  on  their  offspring  came  that  fatal  day! 

Ah !  happy  I  amidst  my  grief  to  know 
That  they  are  all  unconscious  of  my  woe!” 

It  is  the  catastrophe  which  he  here  mentions  that  has 
now  to  be  discussed.  The  cause  of  the  banishment  of 
Ovid,  like  the  personality  of  the  Man  in  the  Iron  Mask 
and  the  authorship  of  “Junius,”  is  one  of  the  unsolved 


44 


6  VII). 


problems  of  history.  The  facts  absolutely  known  are 
very  soon  related.  Ovid  was  in  his  fifty-second  year. 
His  fame  as  a  poet  was  at  its  height.  Any  scandal  that 
may  have  arisen  from  some  of  his  publications  had 
gradually  passed  away.  Suddenly  there  fell  on  him  “  a 
bolt  from  the  blue.”  A  rescript  in  the  emperor’s  hand 
was  delivered  to  him,  ordering  him  to  leave  Rome 
within  a  certain  time,  and  to  repair  to  Tomi,  a  desolate 
settlement  on  the  western  shore  of  the  Black  Sea,  near 
the  very  outskirts  of  the  empire.  No  decree  of  the  sen¬ 
ate  had  been  passed  to  authorize  the  infliction  of  the 
banishment.  It  was  simply  an  act  of  arbitrary  power 
on  the  part  of  the  emperor.  The  cause  alleged  was  the 
publication  of  works  corrupting  to  public  morals,  and 
the  “Art  of  Love”  was  specified.  The  punishment  was 
not  of  the  severest  kind.  The  place  of  exile,  hateful 
as  it  was  to  the  banished  man,  was  at  least  preferable  to 
that  which  many  offenders  had  to  endure — some  deso¬ 
late  rock  in  the  iEgean,  where  the  victim  was  kept  from 
starvation  only  by  the  charity  of  his  friends.  Ovid 
was  also  permitted  to  retain  and  enjoy  his  property. 

That  the  cause  alleged  wTas  not  the  actual  cause  of  the 
banishment  may  be  considered  certain.  It  is  sufficient 
to  say  that  the  guilty  work  had  been  published  at  least 
ten  years  before.  The  offence  was  such  as  to  afford  a 
pretext  of  the  barest  kind  to  an  absolute  ruler  who  felt 
the  force  of  public  opinion  just  enough  to  make  him 
shrink  from  a  wholly  arbitrary  act,  but  was  not  careful 
to  make  any  complete  justification.  But  it  did  not,  we 
may  be  sure,  wholly  sway  his  mind.  We  know,  indeed, 
that  there  was  another  cause.  To  such  a  cause  Ovid 
frequently  alludes.  And  it  is  in  this  lies  the  mystery  of 
the  event. 

■I  At  the  same  time,  we  must  not  suppose  that  the 


Domestic  life— banishment. 


45 


alleged  motive  had  not  some  real  influence  on  the  em¬ 
peror’s  action.  His  own  life  had  not  been  by  any  means 
free  from  reproach.  Even  if  we  discredit  much  of  what 
that  great  scandalmonger,  Suetonius,  tells  us  about  him, 
there  remains  enough  to  convict  him  of  shameful  dis¬ 
regard  of  morality.  But  he  was  now  an  old  man.  And 
he  had  some  of  those  tremendous  lessons  which  teach 
even  the  most  profligate,  if  the  light  of  intelligence  be 
not  wholly  quenched  in  them,  that  moral  laws  cannot 
be  disregarded  with  impunity.  Men  in  their  own  lives 
quite  regardless  of  purity  feel  a  genuine  shock  of  dis¬ 
gust  and  horror  when  they  find  unchastitv  in  the  women 
of  their  own  family.  And  Augustus  had  felt  the  un¬ 
utterable  shame  of  discovering  that  his  own  daughter 
was  the  most  profligate  woman  in  Rome.  Nor  was  he, 
we  may  believe,  without  some  genuine  feeling  of  con¬ 
cern  for  the  future  of  his  country.  The  establishment 
of  absolute  power  may  have  been  a  necessity  for  the 
State — all  writers  seem  to  agree  in  saying  so.  It  had 
certainly  aggrandized  himself.  But  he  could  not  fail  to 
perceive,  and  to  perceive  more  and  more  clearly  as  he 
came  nearer  to  the  end  of  his  long  reign,  that  it  was 
ruining  the  old  Roman  character,  the  traditionary  vir¬ 
tues  of  his  country.  An  aristocracy,  whose  vast  wealth 
furnished  them  with  all  the  means  of  procuring  enjoy¬ 
ment,  but  who  were  shut  out  from  anything  like  the 
career  of  public  life,  would  inevitably  become  corrupt. 
Augustus  was  not  a  man  who  would  deny  himself  in 
order  to  set  a  practical  example  to  others;  but  he  was  a 
man  capable  of  doing  everything,  short  of  such  self- 
denial,  to  stop  the  evil  of  which,  both  from  public  and 
private  causes,  he  was  so  acutely  conscious.  He  had 
recourse  to  severe  legislation  against  immorality.  The 
more  he  saw,  as  he  must  have  seen,  how  ineffectual  was 


46 


OVID. 


this  method  of  reforming  society,  the  greater  must  have 
been  his  disgust  with  other  agencies  which  he  supposed 
to  be  at  work.  Ovid’s  poems  may  well  have  been  a 
symptom  rather  than  a  cause  of  general  immorality; 
but  it  was  quite  possible  that  Augustus,  his  own  habits 
and  tastes  changed  by  advancing  years,  may  have  sin¬ 
cerely  regarded  them  as  the  author  of  mischief,  and 
deserving,  accordingly,  of  the  severest  punishment. 

To  arrive,  however,  at  the  truth,  we  must  examine 
closely  another  side  of  the  emperor’s  life.  His  home 
was  divided  between  two  conflicting  interests — the  in¬ 
terest  of  his  own  descendants  and  the  interest  of  the 
step-children  whom  his  wife  Li  via  had  brought  into  his 
family.  Livia,  one  of  the  ablest  women  of  whom  his¬ 
tory  speaks,  had  steadfastly  set  her  heart  on  securing 
for  her  son  Tiberius  the  succession  to  the  throne.  To 
gain  this  end  she  had  to  clear  away  from  his  path  the 
rivals  who  might  be  found  among  the  blood-relations  of 
her  husband.  How  far  the  course  of  events  helped  her 
in  her  undertaking,  how  far  she  assisted  the  course  of 
events  by  her  ow n  arts,  will  never  be  known.  The  fate 
of  Julia,  the  daughter  of  Augustus,  has  been  already 
related.  She  had  borne  to  her  second  husband  Agrippa 
five  children,  three  of  them  sons.  The  eldest  son,  Caius, 
has  been  mentioned  before.*  He  was  wounded,  it  was 
said  by  treachery,  before  the  town  of  Artagera,  in  Arme¬ 
nia,  and  died,  some  months  afterwards,  at  Limyra,  on 
the  southwestern  coast  of  Asia  Minor,  whither  he  had 
gone  to  recruit  his  health  in  a  climate  less  inclement 
than  that  of  Armenia.  The  second  son,  Lucius,  had  died 
eighteen  months  before  at  Marseilles.  The  third, 
Agrippa  Postumus,  was  a  youth  whose  irreciaimably 


*  Page  39. 


DOMESTIC  LIFE— BANISHMENT 


47 


savage  temper  bordered  on  insanity.  He  had  been 
adopted  by  Augustus  at  the  same  time  with  Tiberius, 
but  as  his  character  revealed  itself,  the  hopes  that  the 
emperor  might  once  have  entertained  of  finding  a  suc¬ 
cessor  in  a  descendant  of  his  own  died  away.  Livia 
had  no  difficulty  in  persuading  him  that  if  Agrippa  was 
not  to  sit  on  the  throne,  it  would  be  better  that  he  should 
be  removed  from  its  neighborhood.  Though  guiltless 
of  any  crime,  he  was  banished  to  Planasia,  on  the  coast 
of  Corsica,  and  the  emperor  obtained  a  decree  from  the 
senate  which  made  this  banishment  life-long.  But  the 
contest  was  not  yet  decided.  The  family  of  Julia,  whose 
beauty,  wit,  and  varied  accomplishments  were  not  for¬ 
gotten,  was  greatly  popular  at  Rome;  whilst  the  ambi¬ 
tion  of  Livia,  who  wTas  strongly  suspected  of  having 
hastened  the  death  of  the  young  Caesars,  and  the  craft 
and  dissimulation  of  Tiberius,  were  objects  of  dread. 
It  was  under  these  circumstances  that  she  discovered 
the  younger  Julia  to  be  in  her  power.  This  unhappy 
woman  had  inherited  the  vicious  propensities  of  her 
mother.  One  of  many  lovers  was  Decius  Julius  Silanus, 
member  of  a  family  which  had  been  distinguished  in 
Rome  since  the  second  Punic  war.  The  intrigue  was 
too  notorious  to  escape  observation,  and  Livia  had  the 
opportunity  which  she  desired.  Julia  was  banished;  her 
paramour  went  into  voluntary  exile. 

So  far  we  are  on  firm  historical  ground.  It  may  be 
added  also,  that  the  same  year  which  saw  the  disgrace 
of  Julia,  witnessed  also  the  banishment  of  Ovid.  Were 
the  two  events  in  any  way  connected?  We  must  get 
our  answer  from  considering  the  circumstances  of  the 
political  situation  which  has  been  described,  from  the 
coincidence,  and  from  the  hints,  which  are  indeed  suffi¬ 
ciently  numerous,  which  Ovid  himself  gives  us.  The 


48 


OVID . 


fact  that  these  hints  do  occur  negative  one  supposition 
which  has  found  some  favor — namely,  that  Ovid.had  be* 
come  involuntarily  acquainted  with  some  dark  secret 
disgraceful  to  the  character  of  Augustus  himself.  Ead 
there  been  such  a  secret,  we  can  hardly  suppose  that  the 
poet  would  have  alluded  to  it.  Again  and  again  he  makes 
his  piteous  supplications  for  the  termination,  or  at  least 
the  mitigation,  of  his  banishment.  But  every  mention 
of  such  a  fact  would  have  been  an  additional  offence. 
Indeed  it  is  difficult  to  imagine  that  the  possessor  of  such 
dangerous  knowledge  should  have  been  suffered  to  live. 
Not  a  prolonged  banishment  with  unlimited  opportuni¬ 
ties  for  communication  with  his  friends,  but  the  sword 
of  the  centurion,  would  have  been  his  doom.  We  may  be 
nearly  sure  that  the  secret,  as  far  at  least  as  it  concered 
Augustus,  must  have  been  known  already.  Ovid  was  not 
banished  for  the  purpose  of  keeping  something  concealed. 
That  purpose  could  have  been  far  more  easily  and  effec¬ 
tually  secured,  and  Roman  emperors  were  not  accus¬ 
tomed  to  be  scrupulous  about  means.  Let  us  see,  then, 
what  Ovid  actually  says  on  the  subject: 

“Why  did  I  see  something  ?  why  did  I  make  my  eyes  guilty? 
why  did  I  become,  all  unknowingly,  acquainted  with  guilt?” 

“  Two  faults  overthrew  me— my  verses  and  my  wrongdoing; 
but  about  the  guilt  of  one  of  them  I  must  keep  silence.”  * 

“  I  am  not  worth  so  much  as  to  renew  thy  wound,  O  Caesar;  it 
is  far  too  much  that  you  should  once  have  felt  the  pang.” 

“You  [Augustus]  avenged  on  me,  as  is  right,  a  quarrel  of 
you  own.” 

“  Because  my  eyes  unknowingly  beheld  a  crime,  I  am  pun¬ 
ished.  To  have  had  the  power  of  sight— this  is  my  sin.” 


*  Masson  appropriately  quotes  the  words  used  by  Tiberius  in 
allowing  Silanus  to  return  from  exile:  “  I  myself  still  feel  against 
him  as  strongly  as  ever  the  quarrel  of  my  father  Augustus.” 


DOMESTIC  LIFE— BANISHMENT. 


49 


He  protests  that  his  fault  had  been  an  error  rather 
than  a  crime :  ' 

“If  mortal  deeds  never  escape  the  knowledge  of  gods,  you 
know  that  there  was  no  guilt  in  my  fault.  So  it  is— you  know  it; 
it  was  my  mistake  that  led  me  astray;  my  purpose  was  foolish, 
but  not  wicked.” 

“  You  would  say  that  this  fault  which  ruined  me  was  not  a 
crime,  did  you  know  how  things  followed  one  another  in  this 
great  trouble.  It  was  either  cowardice  or  fault  of  judgment,  but 
fault  of  judgment  first  of  all,  that  damaged  me.” 

“  Had  not  my  part  of  the  guilt  admitted  excuse,  banishment 
•would  have  been  a  trifling  punishment.” 

That  he  became  acquainted  with  some  crime  which 
touched  nearly  the  honor  of  Augustus;  that  he  con¬ 
cealed  it;  that  in  some  sense  he  made  himself  an  accom¬ 
plice  in  it;  that  this  crime  was  not  an  isolated  act,  but 
a  line  of  conduct  pursued  for  some  time;  that  Ovid  was 
afraid  or  thought  it  better  not  to  reveal  his  knowledge 
of  it, — are,  it  seems,  inferences  that  may  fairly  be 
drawn  from  the  language  which  he  uses.  They  har¬ 
monize  with  the  supposition  that  Ovid  became  invol¬ 
untarily  acquainted  with  the  intrigue  of  the  younger 
Julia  with  Silanus, — that  he  helped  to  conceal  it,  pos¬ 
sibly  assisted  in  its  being  carried  on.  It  is  probable,  at 
the  same  time,  that  he  was  one  of  the  party  which  sup¬ 
ported  that  side  of  the  imperial  house.  It  is  not  diffi¬ 
cult  to  imagine  that  the  result  should  have  been  such 
as  we  know  to  have  happened.  The  emperor,  for  a  sec¬ 
ond  time,  is  struck  to  the  heart  by  the  discovery  of  the 
darkest  profligacy  in  one  very  near  to  himself.  In  his 
capacity  as  ruler  he  is  terrified  by  the  corruption  which 
his  laws  are  powerless  to  stay.  The  poems  which  the 
severer  moralists  of  his  court  had  possibly  criticised — 
and  Livia  really  felt,  while  Tiberius  at  least  affected, 
such  severity — comes  to  his  recollection,  ^nd  he  finds 


50 


OVID, 


that,  the  author  has  actually  abetted  the  guilty  intrigues 
of  his  granddaughter.  Livia  and  Tiberius,  anxious  to 
get  out  of  the  way  a  partisan  of  opposite  interests  who 
might  possibly  be  dangerous,  encourage  the  impulse, 
and  the  poet  is  banished. 

Another  part  of  the  story  remains  to  be  related.  If 
the  tale  which  Tacitus  tells  be  true,  all  the  art  and 
persistency  of  Livia  had  not  succeeded  in  wholly  alien¬ 
ating  the  affections  of  Augustus  from  his  own  descend¬ 
ants.  Even  up  to  the  last  months  of  the  old  man’s  life 
the  interests  of  her  son  had  to  be  jealously  defended. 
Tacitus  gives  (Annals,  i.  5),  without  saying  whether  he 
himself  believed  or  disbelieved  it,  a  report  which  was 
current  shortly  after  the  death  of  Augustus.  “A  ru¬ 
mor  had  gone  abroad  that  a  few  months  before,  he 
[Augustus]  had  sailed  to  Planasia  on  a  visit  to  Agrippa, 
with  the  knowledge  of  some  chosen  friends,  and  with 
one  companion,  Fabius  Maximus;  that  many  tears wTere 
shed  on  both  sides,  with  expressions  of  affection,  and 
that  thus  there  was  a  hope  of  the  young  man  being  re¬ 
stored  to  the  home  of  his  grandfather.  This,  it  was  said, 
Maximus  had  divulged  to  his  wife  Marcia,  she  again  to 
Livia.  All  was  known  to  Caesar;  and  when  Maximus 
soon  afterwards  died,  by  a  death  some  thought  to  be 
self-inflicted,  there  were  heard  at  his  funeral  wailings 
from  Marcia,  in  which  she  reproached  herself  for 
having  been  the  cause  of  her  husband’s  destruction.”  * 

*  Plutarch  has  added  to  this  narrative  an  interesting  anecdote 
to  the  effect  that  Fabius  (he  calls  him  Fulvius  by  mistake), 
when  paying  his  respects  as  usual  to  the  emperor  in  the  morn¬ 
ing,  had  his  salutation  returned  with  the  ominous  “  Farewell, 
Fulvius.”  “But  he,  comprehending  the  matter,  forthwith  re¬ 
tired  to  his  house,  and,  summoning  his  wife,  said,  ‘  Caesar  has 
learnt  that  I  have  not  been  silent  about  his  secrets:  I  have  there¬ 
fore  resolved  to  die.’ 


METAMORPHOSES  OR  TRANSFORMATIONS.  51 


To  this  Maximus  Ovid  addresses  six  of  his  “  Letters 
from  the  Pontus.”  He  evidently  looked  to  him  as  one 
■who  might  exercise  a  powerful  influence  on  his  behalf. 
He  appeals  to  him  again  and  again  to  exercise  it.  And 
at  one  time  he  seems  to  have  hoped  that  it  would  not  be 
exercised  in  vain.  “Augustus  had  begun,”  he  writes  in 
the  sixth  year  of  his  exile,  “to  grow  more  lenient  to 
my  fault  of  ignorance,  and  lo!  he  leaves  my  hopes  and 
all  the  world  desolate  at  once.”  It  is  in  the  same  letter 
that  he  significantly  deplores  the  death  of  Maximus. 
“  I  think,  Maximus,  that  I  must  have  been  the  cause  of 
your  death.”  This  may  have  been  a  commonplace, — 
the  fear  lest  the  cause  of  so  unlucky  a  man  might  be 
fatal  to  any  who  undertook  it.  Viewed  in  connection 
with  the  whole  story,  it  assumes  a  different  aspect. 
That  Maximus  had  perished  in  an  attempt  to  befriend 
Ovid  may  have  been  so  far  true  that  his  death  followed 
an  unsuccessful  effort  to  restore  to  the  favor  of  Augus¬ 
tus  and  to  the  succession  the  family  in  whose  fall  the 
poet  himself  had  fallen. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE  METAMORPHOSES  OR  TRANSFORMATIONS. 

Ovid  tells  us  that  before  he  was  banished  he  had 
written,  but  not  corrected,  the  fifteen  books  of  the 
“Metamorphoses,”  and  had  also  composed  twelve  books 
(only  six  have  been  preserved)  of  the  “Fasti”  or  Roman 
Calendar.  These  are  his  chief  surviving  poems,  and 
it  will  be  convenient  to  describe  them  in  this  and  the 
following  chapter. 

In  the  “Metamorphoses”  we  have  the  largest  and 
most  important  of  Ovid’s  works;  and,  if  we  view  it  as 


52 


ovm 


a  whole,  the  greatest  monument  of  his  poetical  genius. 
The  plan  of  the  book  is  to  collect  together,  out  of  the 
vast  mass  of  Greek  mythology  and  legend,  the  various 
stories  which  turn  on  the  change  of  men  and  women 
from  the  human  form  into  animals,  plants,  or  inanimate 
objects.  Nor  are  the  tales  merely  collected.  Such  a 
collection  would  have  been  inevitably  monotonous  and 
tiresome.  With  consummate  skill  the  poet  arranges  and 
connects  them  together.  The  thread  of  connection  is 
often  indeed  slight;  sometimes  it  is  broken  altogether. 
But  it  is  sufficiently  continuous  to  keep  alive  the  reader’s 
interest;  which  is,  indeed,  often  excited  by  the  remark¬ 
able  ingenuity  of  the  transition  from  one  tale  to 
another.  But  it  did  not  escape  the  author’s  perception 
that  to  repeat  over  and  over  again  the  story  of  a  marvel, 
which  must  have  been  as  incredible  to  his  own  con¬ 
temporaries  as  it  is  to  us,  would  have  been  to  insure 
failure.  Hence  the  metamorphoses  themselves  occupy 
but  a  small  part  of  the  book,  which  finds  its  real  charm 
and  beauty  in  the  brilliant  episodes,  for  the  introduction 
of  which  they  supply  the  occasion. 

How  far  the  idea  was  Ovid’s  own  it  is  impossible  to 
say.  Two  Greek  poets  are  known  to  have  written  on 
the  same  subject.  One  of  them  was  Nicander,  of  Colo¬ 
phon,  in  Asia  Minor,  an  author  of  the  second  century 
B.c.,  attached,  it  would  seem,  to  the  court  of  Per- 
gamus,  which,  under  the  dynasty  of  the  Attali,  was  a 
famous  centre  of  literary  activity.  Of  his  work  the 
“Changes”  (for  so  we  may  translate  its  Greek  title), 
only  a  few  fragments  are  preserved,  quite  insufficient 
to  give  us  any  idea  of  its  merits  or  methods.  Parthe* 
nius,  a  native  of  the  Bithynian  Nicaea,  so  famous  in 
ecclesiastical  history,  may  be  credited  with  having 
given  some  hints  to  the  Roman  poet,— to  whom,  itq 


METAMORPHOSES  Oti  TRANSFORM  A  T10MS.  60 

deed,  a3  a  contemporary,*  and  connected  with  the 
great  literary  circle  of  Rome,  he  was  probably  known. 
Parthenius,  we  know  on  good  authority,  taught  the 
Greek  language  to  Virgil,  who  condescended  to  borrow 
at  least  one  line  from  his  preceptor.  His  “Metamor¬ 
phoses”  have  entirely  perished.  We  have  only  the 
probability  of  the  case  to  warrant  us  in  supposing  that 
Ovid  Wfls  under  obligations  to  him.  Of  these  obliga¬ 
tions,  indeed,  no  ancient  authority  speaks;  and  it  is 
safe,  probably,  to  conjecture  that  they  were  inconsider¬ 
able — nothing,  certainly,  like  what  Virgil  owed  to 
Homer,  Hesiod,  and  Theocritus. 

It  would  weary  the  reader,  not  to  mention  the  space 
which  the  execution  of  such  a  task  would  require,  to 
conduct  him  along  the  whole  course  of  the  metamor¬ 
phoses — from  the  description  of  Chaos,  with  which  the 
poet  begins,  to  the  transformation  of  the  murdered 
Caesar  into  a  comet,  with  which,  not  following  the 
customary  adulation  to  the  successor  of  the  great  Dic¬ 
tator,  he  concludes.  Specimens  must  suffice;  and  the 
book  is  one  which,  better  than  any  other  great  poem 
that  can  be  mentioned,  specimens  may  adequately  re¬ 
present. 

The  first  book  begins,  as  has  been  said,  with  a  de¬ 
scription  of  Chaos.  “  Nothing,”  says  Bayle,  in  his 
satirical  fashton,  “  could  be  clearer  and  more  intelligible 
than  this  description,  if  we  consider  only  the  poetical 
phrases;  but  if  we  examine  its  philosophy,  we  find  it 
confused  and  contradictory— a  chaos,  in  fact,  more 
hiedous  than  that  which  he  has  described.”  Bayle, 
however,  looked  for  what  the  poet  never  pretended  to 


*  Parthenius  died  at  an  advanced  age,  about  the  beginning  of 
the  reign  of  Tiberius, 


u 


OVID . 


give.  His  cosmogony,  is,  at  least,  as  intelligible  as  any 
other;  and  it  is  expressed  with  marvellous  force  of 
language,  culminating  in  one  of  the  noblest  of  the 
poet’s  efforts,  the  description  of  the  creation  of  man, 
the  crown  and  masterpiece  of  the  newly-made  world. 

“  Something  yet  lacked— some  holier  being— do  wei’ed 
With  lofty  soul,  and  capable  of  rule 
And  governance  o’er  all  besides, — and  Man 
At  last  had  birth:— whether  from  seed  divine 
Of  Him,  the  artificer  of  things,  and  cause 
Of  the  amended  world,  —  or  whether  Earth 
Yet  new,  and  late  from  iEther  separate,  still 
Retained  some  lingering  germs  of  kindred  Heaven, 

Which  wise  Prometheus,  with  the  plastic  aid 
Of  water  borrowed  from  the  neighboring  stream, 

Formed  in  the  likeness  of  the  all-ordering  Gods  ; 

And  while  all  other  creatures  sought  th^  ground 
With  downward  aspect  grovelling,  gave  to  man 
His  port  sublime,  and  bade  him  scan,  erect, 

The  heavens,  and  front  with  upward  gaze  the  stars. 

And  thus  earth’s  substance,  rude  and  shapeless  erst, 
Transmuted  took  the  novel  form  of  Man.” *  * 

The  four  ages  of  the  world  thus  created  are  described; 
and  to  the  horrors  of  the  last  of  these,  the  Age  of  Iron, 
succeeds  the  tale  of  its  crowning  wickedness — the  at¬ 
tempt  of  the  giants  to  scale  the  heights  of  heaven. 
Jupiter  smites  down  the  assailants,  and  the  earth  brings 
forth  from  their  blood 

“  A  race  of  Gods 

Contemptous,  prone  to  violence  and  lust 
Of  strife,  and  bloody-minded,  born  from  blood.” 

Jupiter  calls  his  fellow-gods  to  conncil,  and  they  pass 
to  his  hall  along  the  way — 

“  Sublime  of  milky  whiteness,  whence  its  name.” 

— — - - - - - * - - — . . r 

*  Two  lines  of  Dryden’s  version  are  here  worth  quoting? 

“  Man  looks  aloft,  and  with  erected  eyes 
Behold  his  own  hereditary  skies.” 


METAMORPHOSES  OR  TRANSFORMATIONS.  55 


He  inveighs  against  the  enormities  of  man,,  recounting 
what  he  had  himself  witnessed  when  he  had — 

“  Putting  off  the  God, 

Disguised  in  human  semblance  walked  the  world. 

Many  shameful  sights  he  had  witnessed,  hut  the  worst 
horror  had  met  him  in  the  hall  of  Lycaon,  the  Arcadian 
king,  who,  after  attempting  to  murder  his  guest,  had 
served  up  to  him  a  feast  of  human  flesh.  Lycaon,  in¬ 
deed,  had  paid  the  penalty  of  his  crime: 

“  Terror-struck  he  fled, 

And  through  the  silence  of  the  distant  plains 
Wild  howling,  vainly  strove  for  human  voice. 

His  maddened  soul  his  form  infects:— his  arms 
To  legs  are  changed,  his  robes  to  shaggy  hide  ; — 
Glutting  on  helpless  flocks  his  ancient  lust 
Of  blood,  a  wolf  he  prowls,— retaining  still 
Some  traces  of  his  earlier  self ,— the  same 
Gray  fell  of  hair— the  red  fierce  glare  of  eye 
And  savage  mouth —alike  in  beast  and  man!  ” 

% 

But  a  wider  vengeance  was  needed.  The  whole  race  of 
man  must  be  swept  away.  Thus  we  come  to  a  descrip¬ 
tion  of  the  deluge.  Of  all  mankind,  two  only  are  left, — 
Deucalion,  son  of  Prometheus,  and  Pyrrha,  daughter 
of  the  brother  Titan  Epimetheus — 

“  Than  he  no  better,  juster  man  had  lived  ; 

Than  she  no  woman  holier.” 

Seeking  to  know  how  the  earth  may  be  replenished 
with  the  race  of  man,  they  receive  the  mysterious  com¬ 
mand — 

“  Behind  you  fling  your  mighty  -Mother’s  bones!  ” 

Deucalion,  as  becomes  the  son  of  so  sagacious  a  father, 
discovers  its  meaning.  The  “  mighty  mother”  is  earth, 
the  stones  are  her  bones. 


56 


OVID. 


“  They  descena 

The  mount,  and,  with  veiled  head  and  vest  ungirt, 

Behind  them,  as  commanded,  fling  the  stones. 

And  lo ! — a  tale  past  credence,  did  not  all 
Antiquity  attest  it  true,— the  stones 
Their  natural  rigor  lose,  by  slow  degrees 
Softening  and  softening  in  to  form  ;  and  grow, 

And  swell  with  milder  nature,  and  assume 
Rude  semblance  of  a  human  shape,  not  yet 
Distinct,  but  like  some  statue  new-conceived 
And  half  expressed  in  marble.  What  they  had 
Of  moist  or  earthy  in  their  substance,  turns 
To  flesh:— what  solid  and  inflexible 
Forms  into  bones: — their  veins  as  veins  remain: — 

Till,  in  brief  time,  and  by  the  Immortals’  grace, 

The  man-tossed  pebbles  live  and  stand  up  men, 

And  women  from  the  woman’s  cast  revive. 

So  sprang  our  hard  enduring  race,  which  speaks 
Its  origin— fit  fruit  of  such  a  stock.” 

But  while  man  was  thus  created — 

“  All  Other  life  in  various  shapes  the  Earth 
Spontaneous  bare,  soon  as  the  Sun  had  kissed 
Her  bosom  yet  undried,  and  mud  and  marsh 
Stirred  with  ferment.” 

Among  these  creatures,  equivalents  of  the  monstrous 
saurians  of  modern  geological  science,  springs 

“  Huge  Python,  serpent-prodigy,  the  dread 
Of  the  new  world,  o’er  half  the  mountain’s  side 
Enormous  coiled.  But  him  the  Archer-God, 

With  all  his  quiver’s  store  of  shafts,  untried 
Till  now  on  aught  save  deer  or  nimble  goat, 

Smote  to  the  death,  and  from  a  thousand  wounds 
Drained  the  black  torrent  of  his  poisonous  gore:— 

And,  that  the  memory  of  the  deed  might  live 
Through  after -time,  his  famous  festival 
And  Pythian  contest,  from  the  monster’s  name 
So  called,  ordained.” 

Flushed  with  his  victory  over  the  monster,  Apollo  meets 
Cupid,  and  asks  him  what  right  he  has  to  such  a  manly 


METAMORPHOSES  or  TRAHSFORMA  TIONS.  57 


weapon  as  the  bow.  Cupid  retaliates  by  a  shaft  which 
sets  the  Sun-God’s  heart  on  fire  with  a  passion  for 
Daphne,  daughter  of  Peneus,  fairest  and  cliastesff*  of 
nymphs.  She  flies  from  his  pursuit,  and,  when  flight 
is  ineffectual,  is  changed  at  her  own  prayer  into  a  laurel. 
The  god  makes  the  best  of  his  defeat: 

“  ‘And  if,’  he  cries, 

*  Thou  canst  not  now  my  consort  be,  at  least 
My  tree  thou  shalt  be !  Still  thy  leaves  shall  crown 
My  locks,  my  lyre,  my  quiver.  Thine  the  brows 
Of  Latium’s  lords  to  wreathe,  what  time  the  voice 
Of  Rome  salutes  the  triumph,  and  the  pomp 
Of  long  procession  scales  the  Capitol. 

Before  the  gates  Augustan  shalt  thou  stand 
Their  hallowed  guardian,  high  amid  thy  boughs 
Bearing  the  crown  to  civic  merit  due:— 

And,  as  my  front  with  locks  that  know  no  steel 

Is  ever  youthful,  ever  be  thine  own 

Thus  verdant,  with  the  changing  year  unchanged!’  ” 

The  news  of  the  strange  event  spreads  far  and  wide, 
and  to  Peneus 

“Throng 

The  brother-Powers  of  all  the  neighbor-floods, 
Doubtful  or  to  congratulate  or  condole 
The  parent’s  hap.” 

One  only  was  absent,  Inachus, 

“  Whom  grief 

Held  absent,  in  his  cave’s  recess,  with  tears 
His  flood  augmenting.” 

(One  of  the  frigid  conceits  with  which  Ovid  often  be¬ 
trays  a  faulty  taste.)  His  grief  was  for  his  daughter 
Io,  whom  he  has  lost,  changed  by  Juno  into  a  heifer. 
The  feelings  of  the  transformed  maiden  are  told  with 
some  pathos. 

“  By  the  loved  banks  she  strays 
Of  Inachus,  her  childhood’s  happy  haunt, 

And  in  the  stream  strange  horns  reflected  views, 


58 


OVID. 


Back-shuddering  at  the  sight.  The  Naiads  see 
And  know  her  not:— nor  Inachus  himself 
Can  recognize  his  child,— though  close  her  sire 
She  follows— close  her  sister-band,— and  courts 
Their  praise,  and  joys  to  feel  their  fondling  hands. 

Some  gathered  herbs  her  father  proffers— mute. 

She  licks  and  wets  with  tears  his  honored  palm, 

And  longs  for  words  to  ask  his  aid,  and  tell 
Her  name,  her  sorrows.” 

She  contrives  to  tell  her  tale  in  letters  scraped  by  her 
hoof.  Then  Argus,  the  hundred-eyed  herdsman,  to 
whom  Juno  has  committed  her,  drives  her  to  other 
pastures.  Then  Mercury  finds  him,  charms  him  to 
slumber  with  the  song  of  Syrinx,  transformed  into  a 
reed  to  escape  the  love  of  Pan,  and  then  slays  him. 

“  So  waned  at  once 

The  light  which  filled  so  many  eyes;  one  night 
Closed  all  the  hundred.  But  Saturnia’s  care 
Later  renewed  their  fires,  and  bade  them  shine, 
Gem-like,  amid  the  peacock’s  radiant  plumes.” 

In  Egypt,  Io  gives  birth  to  her  son  Epaphus,  and 
Epaplius,  growing  up,  has  among  his  companions  one 
Phaeton — 

“  Apollo’s  child,  whom  once,  with  boastful  tongue, 
Vaunting  his  birth  divine,  and  claiming  rank 
Superior,  the  Inachian  checked  ” 

with  the  taunt  that  his  divine  parentage  was  all  a  fable. 
The  furious  youth  seeks  his  mother,  and  demands 
whether  the  story  is  true.  It  is,  she  says ;  and  she  bids 
him  seek  the  Sun-God  himself,  and  hear  the  truth  from 
his  lips .  The  famous  description  of  the  Sun-God’s  pal¬ 
ace  follows : 

44  Sublime  on  lofty  columns,  bright  with  gold 
And  fiery  carbuncle,  its  roof  inlaid 
With  ivory,  rose  the  Palace  of  the  Sun, 

Approached  by  folding  gates  with  silver  sheen 


METAMORPHOSES  OR  TRANSFORMATIONS.  59 


Radiant;  material  priceless,— yet  less  prized 
For  its  own  worth  than  what  the  cunning  head 
Of  Mulciber  thereon  had  wrought, — the  globe 
Of  Earth, — the  Seas  that  wash  it  round,— the  Skies 
That  overhang  it,  ’Mid  the  waters  played 
Their  Gods  cserulean.  Triton  with  his  horn 
Was  there,  and  Proteus  of  the  shifting  shape, 

And  old  iEgeon,  curbing  with  firm  hand 
The  monsters  of  the  deep.  Her  Nereids  there 
Round  Doris  sported,  seeming,  some  to  swim 
Some  on  the  rocks  their  tresses  green  to  dry. 

Some  dolphin-borne  to  ride ;  nor  all  in  face 
The  same,  nor  different;— so  should  sisters  be. 

Earth  showed  her  men,  and  towns,  and  woods,  and  beasts, 
And  streams,  and  nymphs,  and  rural  deities: 

And  over  all  the  mimic  Heaven  was  bright 
With  the  twelve  Zodiac  signs,  on  either  valve 
Of  the  great  portal  figured,  six  on  each.” 

Phaeton  begs  his  father  to  confirm  his  word  by  grant¬ 
ing  any  boon  that  he  may  ask;  and,  the  god  consenting, 
asks  that  he  may  drive  his  chariot  for  a  day.  Phaeton 
is  the  stock  example  of  “  fiery  ambition  o’ervaulting  it¬ 
self  and  the  story  of  his  fall  may  be  passed  over, 
though  it  abounds  with  passages  of  splendid  description. 
Eridanus  or  Po  receives  the  fallen  charioteer.  His 
weeping  sisters  are  transformed  into  poplars  on  its 
banks. 

“  But  yet  they  weep:— and,  in  the  Sun,  their  tears 
To  amber  harden,  by  the  clear  stream  caught 
And  borne,  the  gaud  and  grace  of  Latian  maids.” 

We  have  reached  the  middle  of  the  second  out  of 
fifteen  books.  We  will  try  their  quality  at  another 
place. 

Perseus,  son  of  Jupiter,  is  on  his  travels,  mounted  on 
the  winged  steed  Pegasus,  and  armed  with  the  head  of 
the  Gorgon  Medusa.  He  comes  to  the  house  of  Atlas, 
“hugest  of  th$  human  rac§ 


60 


OVID . 


“  To  whom  the  bounds 

Of  Earth  and  Sea  were  subject,  where  the  Sun 
Downward  to  Ocean  guides  his  panting  steeds 
And  in  the  waves  his  glowing  axle  cools.” 

He  asks  shelter  and  hospitality;  but  the  Titan,  mind¬ 
ful  of  how  Theseus  had  told  him  how  a  son  of  Jupiter 
should  one  day  rob  him  of  his  orchard’s  golden  fruit,  re¬ 
fuses  the  boon.  The  indignant  hero  cries — 

“  ‘Then  take 

From  me  this  gift  at  parting!’  and  his  look 
Askance  he  turned,  and  from  his  left  arm  flashed 
Full  upon  Atlas’  face  the  Gorgon-Head, 

With  all  its  horrors:— and  the  Giant-King 
A  Giant  mountain  stood !  His  beard,  his  hair 
Were  forests:— into  crags  his  shoulders  spread 
And  arms:— his  head  the  crowning  summit  towered: — 

His  bones  were  granite.  So  the  Fates  fulfilled 
Their  hest;— and  all  his  huge  proportions  swelled 
To  vaster  bulk,  and  ample  to  support 
The  incumbent  weight  of  Heaven  and  all  its  Stars.” 

Perseus  pursues  his  journey,  and  reaches  the  Lybiau 
shore,  where  the  beautiful  Andromeda  is  chained  to  a 
rock,  to  expiate,  by  becoming  the  sea-monster’s  prey,  her 
mother’s  foolish  boast  of  beauty. 

“  Bound  by  her  white  arms  to  the  rugged  rocks 
The  Maid  he  saw:— and  were’t  not  for  the  breeze 
That  gave  her  tresses  motion,  and  the  tears 
That  trickled  down  her  pallid  cheeks,— had  sure 
Some  marble  statue  deemed.” 

The  reader  may  like  to  see  how  a  modern  poet  has 
treated  the  subject.  It  is  Perseus  who  speaks : 

“  From  afar,  unknowing,  I  marked  thee, 
Shining  a  snow-white  cross  on  the  dark -green  walls  of  the  sea- 
cliff; 

Carven  in  marble  I  deemed  thee,  a  perfect  work  of  the  crafts¬ 
man, 

yk<?nes?  of  Amphitrite,  or  far-fained  Queen  Cytherea, 


METAMORPHOSES  OR  TRANSFORMATIONS.  61 


Curious  I  came,  till  I  saw  how  thy  tresses  streamed  In  the  sea* 
wind, 

Glistening,  black  as  the  night,  and  thy  lips  moved  slow  in  thy 
wailing.” 

Mr.  Kingsley’s  hero  delivers  the  maiden,  trusting  to  her 
for  his  reward.  Ovid’s  Perseus,  less  chivalrous,  per¬ 
haps,  hut  more  in  accordance  with  ancient  modes  of 
thought,  bargains  with  her  father  and  mother  that  he 
shall  have  her  for  his  wife,  before  he  begins  the  conflict 
with  the  destroyer.  On  the  other  hand,  it  may  be  placed 
to  his  credit  that  he  slays  the  beast  with  his  falchion, 
without  recourse  to  the  terrible  power  of  the  Gorgon- 
head.  Ovid’s  taste  seems  a  little  in  fault  in  the  next 
passage.  Perseus  wraps  up  his  dangerous  weapon  in 
sea- weed,  which  freezes,  and  stiffens  at  its  touch  into 
stony  leaf  and  stalk.  The  sea-nymphs,  in  delight,  re¬ 
peat  the  experiment,  sow  “the  novel  seeds”  about  their 
realm,  and  so  produce  the  coral.  To  us  it  seems  a  pue¬ 
rile  conceit,  diminishing  the  beauty  of  a  noble  legend. 
Ovid,  probably,  thought  only  of  completing  his  work, 
by  introducing  every  fable  of  transformation  he  could 
find. 

After  victory  comes  due  sacrifice  to  the  gods,  and 
then  Ceplieus  makes  the  marriage-feast  for  his  daughter. 
To  the  assembled  guests  Perseus  tells  the  story  of  how 
he  had  won  the  Gorgon’s  head.  In  the  midst  of  their 
talk  comes  a  sudden  interruption  of  no  friendly  kind. 
Phineus,  brother  of  Ceplieus,  bursts  with  an  armed 
throng  into  the  hall,  and  demands  Andromeda,  who 
had  been  promised  to  him  in  marriage.  A  fierce  bat¬ 
tle  ensues;  and  Ovid,  in  describing  it,  seems  to  chal¬ 
lenge  comparison  with  the  great  masters  of  epic.  The 
young  hero,  true  to  his  principles,  defends  himself  with 
mortal  weapons,  and  works  prodigies  of  valor,  It  is 


62 


OVID, 


only  when  he  finds  his  friends  crushed  by  overpowering 
numbers  that  he  bares  the  dreadful  Head,  and  turns 
it  on  the  assailants; — first  as  they  press  forward  one  by 
one,  then  on  the  crowd,  and  last  on  the  leader  himself. 

“  He  flashed 

Full  on  the  cowering  wretch  the  Gorgon-Head. 

Vainly  he  strove  to  shun  it!  Into  stone 

The  writhing  neck  was  stiffened: — white  the  eyes 

Froze  in  their  sockets : — and  the  statue  still, 

With  hands  beseeching  spread,  and  guilty  fear 
Writ  in  its  face,  for  mercy  seemed  to  pray.” 

Perseus  then  bore  his  bride  to  Argos,  where  the  Head 
recovers  from  the  usurping  Proetus  his  grandfather’s 
kingdom,  and  turns  to  stone  the  incredulous  Poly- 
dectus,  tyrant  of  Seriphus. 

Here  we  leave  Perseus;  and  Pallas,  who  has  been 
his  helper  throughout  his  toils,  goes  to  Helicon,  there 
to  inquire  of  the  Muses  about  the  strange  fountain 
which  she  hears  has  sprung  from  the  lioof-dint  of  the 
winged  Pegasus.  Urania,  speaking  for  the  sisterhood, 
tells  her  that  the  tale  is  true;  and  when  the  goddess 
speaks  of  the  beauty  and  peace  of  their  retreat,  nar¬ 
rates  the  story  of  how  they  had  escaped  from  the 
tyrant  Pyreneus  by  help  of  their  wings,  and  how  he, 
seeking  to  follow  them,  had  heen  dashed  in  pieces. 
As  she  speaks,  a 

“  Whirr  of  wings 

Came  rustling  overhead,  and  from  the  boughs 
Voices  that  bade  them  ‘  Hail !’— so  human-clear 
That  upward  Pallas  turned  her  wondering  gaze 
To  see  who  spoke.  She  saw  but  Birds:— a  row 
Thrice  three,  of  Pies,  at  imitative  sounds 
Deftest  of  winged  things,  that,  on  a  branch 
Perched  clamorous,  seemed  as  though  some  "woeful  tale 
They  wailed  and  strove  to  tell,” 


METAMORPHOSES  OR  TRANSFORMATIONS.  68 


Urania  explains  the  marvel.  They  had  been  nine 
sisters,  daughters  of  Pierus,  “Lord  of  Pella’s  field,” 
and  proud  of  their  skill  in  music  and  song;  and,  deem¬ 
ing  that  there  lay  some  magic  in  their  mystic  number, 
had  challenged  the  sister  Muses  to  contend.  The 
challenge  had  been  accepted,  and  the  Nymphs  swore 
by  all  their  river-gods  to  judge  fairly  between  the 
two.  One  of  the  daughters  of  Pierus  had  sung,  and 
her  song  had  been  treason  to  the  gods,  for  it  told 
how,  in  fear  of  the  Titan  onset  of  the  sons  of  earth, 
the  lords  of  heaven  had  fled,  disguised  in  all  strange 
shapes.  Then  the  Muses  had  replied;  but  Pallas 
thinks  Urania  will  not  care  to  hear  their  song.  Not 
so,  replies  the  goddess;  so  the  tale  is  told.  Calliope 
had  been  their  chosen  champion,  and  her  theme  had 
been  how  Pluto  had  carried  off  Proserpina,  daughter  of 
Ceres,  to  share  his  gloomy  throne  in  Hades,  and  how 
the  mourning  mother  sought  her  child  in  every  region 
of  the  earth.  A  touch  of  the  ludicrous  comes  in,  the 
fate  of  the  mocking  Stellio: 

“Weary  and  travel-worn,— her  lips  unwet 
With  water,— at  a  straw- thatched  cottage  door 
The  Wanderer  knocked.  An  ancient  crone  came  forth 
And  saw  her  need,  and  hospitable  brought 
Her  bowl  of  barley-broth,  and  bade  her  drink. 

Thankful  she  raised  it: — but  a  graceless  boy 

And  impudent  stood  by,  and,  ere  the  half 

Was  drained,  *  Ha!  Ha!  see  how  the  glutton  swills!’ 

With  insolent  jeer  he  cried.  The  Goddess’  ire 
Was  roused,  and,  as  he  spoke,  what  liquor  yet 
The  bowl  retained  full  in  his  face  she  dashed. 

His  cheeks  broke  out  in  blotches: — what  were  arms 
Turned  legs,  and  from  the  shortened  trunk  a  tail 
Tapered  behind.  Small  mischief  evermore 
Might  that  small  body  work the  lizard's  self 
Was  larger  now  than  he.  With  terror  shrieked 
The  crone,  and  weeping  stooped  her  altered  child 


64 


OVli). 


To  raise the  little  monster  fled  her  grasp 
And  wriggled  into  hiding.  Still  his  name 
His  nature  tells,  and,  from  the  star-like  spots 
That  mark  him,  known  as  Stellio  crawls  the  Newt.” 

At  last,  after  a  fruitless  quest,  she  wanders  back  to 
Sicily,  the  land  where  the  lost  one  had  last  been  seen. 
And  then  the  secret  is  half  revealed.  Cyane,  chief  of 
Sicilian  nymphs,  had  tried  to  bar  the  passage  of  Pluto 
as  he  was  descending  with  his  captive,  and  had  been 
dissolved  into  water  by  the  wrath  of  the  god.  But 
she  tells  what  she  can,  and  shows,  floating  on  her 
waves,  the  zone  which  Proserpina  had  dropped. 
Then  the  mother  knew  her  loss,  and  in  her  wrath 
banned  with  barrenness  the  ungrateful  earth.  But 
who  was  the  robber?  That  she  finds  another  nymph 
to  tell  her.  Arethusa  had  seen  her: 

“  All  the  depths 

Of  earth  1  traverse: — where  her  caverns  lie 
Darkest  and  nethermost  I  pass,  and  here 
Uprising,  look  once  more  upon  the  Stars. 

And  in  my  course  I  saw  her !  yea,  these  eyes, 

As  past  the  Stygian  realm  my  waters  rolled, 
Proserpina  beheld !  Still  sad  she  seemed, 

And  still  her  cheek  some  trace  of  terror  wore. 

But  all  a  Queen,  and,  in  that  dismal  world, 

Greatest  in  place  and  majesty ,-~the  wife 
Of  that  tremendous  God  who  rules  in  Hell.’1 

The  wretched  mother  flies  to  the  throne  of  Jupiter. 
She  must  have  back  her  child.  She  does  not  take 
account  of  the  great  throne  which  she  shares.  And 
Jove  grants  the  request,  but  only — for  so  the  Fates 
have  willed  it — on  this  condition,  that  no  food  should 
have  passed  her  lips  in  the  realms  below.  Alas!  the 
condition  cannot  be  fulfilled.  She  had  plucked  a 
pomegranate  in  the  garden  of  the  Shades,  and  had 
eaten  seven  of  its  grains.  Ascalaphus,  son  of  the 


METAMORPHOSES  OR  TRANSFORMATIONS.  65 


gloomy  deities  Woe  and  Darkness,  had  seen  her,  and 
he  told  the  tale.  The  mother  takes  her  revenge: 

44  With  water  snatched  from  Phlegethon 
His  brow  she  sprinkled.  Instant,  beak  and  plumes 
And  larger  eyes  were  his,  and  tawny  wings 
His  altered  form  uplifted,  and  his  head 
Swelled  disproportioned  to  his  size :  his  nails 
Curved  crooked  into  claws,— and  heavily 
His  pinions  beat  the  air.  A  bird  accursed, 

Augur  of  coming  sorrow,  still  to  Man 
Ill-ominous  and  hateful  flits  the  Owl.” 

But  Jove  reconciles  her  to  her  grim  son-in-law. 
Proserpina  was  to  spend  six  months  in  hell  and  six 
on  earth,  and  the  satisfied  mother  has  leisure  to  seek 
Arethusa,  and  find  how  she  had  learned  the  secret. 
She  hears  in  reply  how  she  had  fled  from  the  pursuit 
of  Alplieus  from  her  native  home  in  Acliaia,  and  had 
passed  through  all  the  depths  of  earth  till  she  rose 
again  to  the  light  in  Sicily.  The  story  told,  Ceres 
hastens  to  Athens,  and  there  teaches  the  youth  Tripto- 
lemus  the  secrets  of  husbandry,  and  bids  him  journey 
in  her  dragon-car  over  the  world  to  spread  the  new 
knowledge.  At  the  court  of  the  Scythian  Lyncus  he 
is  treacherously  assailed  by  his  host,  but  Ceres  stays  the 
murderer’s  hand,  and  changes  him  into  a  lynx.  Here, 
after  digressions  which  strongly  remind  us  of  the 
“Arabian  Nights,”  we  come  to  the  end  of  Calliope’s 
song.  Then  Urania  tells  how  the  Nymphs,  with  one 
voice,  accorded  victory  to  the  Muses;  and  how  the 
Pierian  sisters — whose  name,  by  the  way,  their  suc¬ 
cessful  rivals  seem  to  have  appropriated — rebelled 
against  the  judgment,  and  found  the  penality  in  trans¬ 
formation  into  Pies.  The  story  then  passes  on  to  the 
revenge  which  Pallas  herself  has  had  on  a  mortal 


66 


orm 


rival.  The  poet — with  true  tact, — does  not  matte  ner 
tell  the  tale  herself,  for  she  seems  to  have  conquered 
by  power,  not  by  skill.  Arachne,  a  Lydian  maid, 
brought  all  the  world  to  look  at  her  wondrous  spin¬ 
ning.  They  swear  that  Pallas  herself  had  taught  her, 
but  she  disdains  such  praise; — her  art  was  all  her 
own.  Let  Pallas  come  to  compare  her  skill.  And 
Pallas  came,  but  at  first  in  shape  of  an  ancient  dame, 
who  counsels  the  bold  maiden  to  be  content  with 
victory  over  mortal  competitors,  but  to  avoid  dan¬ 
gerous  challenge  to  the  gods.  The  advice  is  given 
in  vain.  Arachne  rushes  upon  her  fate.  The  goddess 
reveals  herself,  and  the  contest  is  begun.  An  admir¬ 
able  piece  of  word-painting  follows: 

“  The  looms  were  set,— the  webs 
Were  hung:  beneath  their  fingers  nimbly  plied 
The  subtle  fabrics  grew,  and  warp  and  woof, 

Transverse,  with  shuttle  and  with  slay  compact 
Were  pressed  in  order  fair.  And  either  girt 
Her  mantle  close,  and  eager  wrought;  the  toil 
Itself  was  pleasure  to  the  skilful  hands 
That  knew  so  well  their  task.  With  Tyrian  hue 
Of  purple  blushed  the  texture,  and  all  shades 
Of  color,  blending  imperceptibly 
Each  into  each.  So,  when  the  wondrous  bow — 

What  time  some  passing  shower  hath  dashed  the  sun — 

Spans  with  its  mighty  arch  the  vault  of  Heaven, 

A  thousand  colors  deck  it,  different  all, 

Yet  all  so  subtly  interfused  that  each 
Seems  one  with  that  which  joins  it,  and  the  eye 
But  by  the  contrast  of  the  extremes  perceives 
The  intermediate  change. — And  last,  with  thread 
Of  gold  embroidery  pictured,  on  the  web 
Lifelike  expressed,  some  antique  fable  glowed.” 


Pallas  pictures  the  Hill  of  Mars  at  Athens,  where 
the  gods  had  sat  in  judgment  in  the  strife  between 


METAMORPHOSES  OR  TRANSFORMA TIONS,  67 


herself  and  Neptune  as  to  who  should  be  the  patron 
deity  of  that  fair  city. 

“  There  stood  the  God 
Of  Seas,  and  with  his  trident  seemed  to  smite 
The  rugged  rock,  and  from  the  cleft  out-sprang 
The  Steed  that  for  its  author  claimed  the  town. 

Herself,  with  shield  and  spear  of  keenest  barb 
And  helm,  she  painted on  her  bosom  gleamed 
The  iEgis: — with  her  lance’s  point  she  struck 
The  earth,  and  from  its  breast  the  Olive  bloomed, 

Pale,  with  its  berried  fruit:— and  all  the  gods 
Admiring  gazed,  adjudging  in  that  strife 
The  victory  hers.” 

Arackne,  disloyal,  as  the  daughters  of  Pierus  had 
been,  to  the  Lords  of  Heaven,  pictures  them  in  the 
base  disguises  to  which  love  for  mortal  women  had 
driven  them.  But  her  work  is  so  perfect  that — 

“  Not  Pallas,  nay,  not  Envy’s  self,  could  fault 
In  all  the  ^ork  detect.” 

The  furious  goddess  smites  her  rival  twelve  times  on 
the  forehead : 

“The  high-souled  Maid 
Such  insult  not  endured,  and  round  her  neck 
Indignant  twined  the  suicidal  noose, 

And  so  had  died.  But,  as  she  hung,  some  ruth 
Stirred  in  Minerva’s  breast:— the  pendent  form 
She  raised,  and  ‘  Live !  ’  she  said— ‘  but  hang  thou  still 
For  ever,  wretch !  and  through  all  future  time 
Even  to  thy  latest  race  bequeath  thy  doom  I’ 

And,  as  she  parted,  sprinkled  her  with  juice 
Of  aconite.  With  venom  of  that  drug 
Infected  dropped  her  tresses,— nose  and  ear 
Were  lost;  her  form  to  smallest  bulk  compressed 
A  head  minutest  crowned to  slenderest  legs 
J ointed  on  either  side  her  fingers  changed : 

Her  body  but  a  bag,  whence  still  she  draws 
Her  filmy  threads,  and,  with  her  ancient  art, 

Weaves  the  fine  meshes  of  her  Spider’s  web,” 


OVID. 


08 

\ 

Leaving  the  goddess  in  the  enjoyment  of  this  doubt*, 
ful  victory,  the  story  passes  on  to  the  tale  of  Niobe, 
What  has  been  given  occupies  in  the  original  a  space 
about  equivalent  to  a  book  and  a  half. 

•  Sometimes  Ovid  gives  us  an  opportunity  of  com¬ 
paring  him  with  a  great  master  of  his  own  art.  A 
notable  instance  of  the  kind  is  the  story  of  how  Orpheus 
went  down  to  the  lower  world  in  search  of  his  lost 
Eurydice;  how  he  won  her  by  the  charms  of  his  song 
from  the  unpitying  Gods  of  Death,  and  lost  her  again 
on  the  very  borders  of  life. 

‘  So  sang  he.  and  accordant  to  his  plaint, 

As  wailed  the  strings,  the  bloodless  Ghosts  were  moved 
To  weeping.  By  the  lips  of  Tantalus  __ 

Unheeded  slipped  the  wave;— Ixion’s  wheel 
Forgot  to  whirl;— the  Vulture’s  bloody  feast 
Was  stayed; — awhile  the  Belides  forbore 
Their  leaky  urns  to  dip;— and  Sisyphus 
Sate  listening  on  his  stone.  Then  first,  they  say, 

The  iron  cheeks  of  the  Eumenides 
•  Were  wet  with  pity.  Of  the  nether  realm 
Nor  King  nor  Queen  had  heart  to  say  him  nay. 

Forth  from  a  host  of  new-descended  Shades 
Eurydice  was  called;  and,  halting  yet 
Slow  with  her  recent  wound  she  came— alive, 

On  one  condition  to  her  spouse  restored, 

That,  till  Avernus’  vale  is  passed  and  earth 
Kegained,  he  look  not  backward,  or  the  boon 
Is  null  and  forfeit.  Through  the  silent  realm 
Upward  against  the  steep  and  fronting  hill 
Dark  with  obscurest  gloom,  the  way  he  led; 

And  now  the  upper  air  was  all  but  won, 

When,  fearful  lest  the  toil  o’er-task  her  strength. 

And  yearning  to  behold  the  form  he  loved, 

An  instant  back  he  looked, — and  back  the  Shade 
That  instant  fled!  The  arms  that  wildly  strove 
To  clasp  and  stay  her  clasped  but  yielding  air! 

No  word  of  plaint  even  in  that  second  Death 
Against  her  Lord  she  uttered,— how  could  Love 


METAMORPHOSES  OR  TRANSFORMATIONS.  69 


Too  anxious  be  upbraided?— but  one  last 
And  sad  ‘  Farewell !’  scarce  audible,  she  sighed, 

And  vanished  to  the  Ghosts  that  late  she  left,” 

Here  is  Virgil,  though  he  has  not  the  advantage 
of  being  presented  by  so  skilful  a  translator  as  Mr. 
King: 

“  Stirred  by  his  song,  from  lowest  depths  of  hell 
Came  the  thin  spectres  of  the  sightless  dead, 

Crowding  as  crowd  the  birds  among  the  leaves 
Whom  darkness  or  a  storm  of  wintry  rain 
Drives  from  the  mountains.  Mothers  came,  and  sires> 
Great-hearted  heroes,  who  had  lived  their  lives; 

And  boys,  and  maidens  never  wed,  and  men 
Whom  in  their  prime,  before  their  parents'  eyes, 

The  funeral  flames  had  eaten.  All  around 
With  border  of  black  mud  and  hideous  reed, 

Cocytus,  pool  unlovely,  hems  them  in, 

And  Styx  imprisons  with  his  nine-fold  stream. 

Nay,  and  his  song  the  very  home  of  death 
Entranced  and  nethermost  abyss  of  hell, 

And  those  Dread  Three  whose  tresses  are  entwined 
With  livid  snakes;  while  Cerberus  stood  agape, 

Nor  moved  the  triple  horror  of  his  jaw; 

And  in  charmed  air  Ixion’s  wheel  was  stayed. 

And  now  with  step  retreating  he  had  shunned 
All  peril;  and  the  lost  one,  given  back, 

Was  nearing  the  sweet  breath  of  upper  air. 

Following  behind— such  terms  the  gods  imposed — 

When  some  wild  frenzy  seized  the  lover’s  heart 
.  Unheeding,  well,  were  pardon  known  in  hell, 

Well  to  be  pardoned.  Still  he  stood,  and  saw, 

Ah  me!  forgetful,  mastered  all  by  love, 

Saw,  at  the  very  border  of  the  day, 

His  own  Eurydice.  Oh  wasted  toil ! 

O  broken  compact  of  the  ruthless  god ! 

Then  through  Avernus  rolled  the  crash  of  doom, 

And  she— ‘  What  miserable  madness  this, 

Ah !  wretched  that  I  am  1  which  ruins  me 
And  thee,  my  Orpheus?  Lo!  the  cruel  Fates 
Call  me  again;  sleep  seals  my  swimming  eyes; 


70 


OVID. 


Farewell!  for  boundless  darkness  wraps  me  round 
And  carries  me  away,  still  stretching  forth 
Dark  hands  to  thee,  who  am  no  longer  thine.’  * 

No  reader  will  doubt  with  which  poet  the  general 
superiority  lies;  yet  it  must  be  allowed  that  Ovid  is 
strong  in  what  may  be  called  his  own  peculiar  line. 
There  is  a  noble  tenderness  and  a  genuine  pathos  in 
the  parting  of  the  two  lovers,  which  is  characteristic  of 
the  poet’s  genius. 

One  of  the  longest  as  well  as  the  most  striking 
episodes  in  the  whole  book  is  the  contest  between  Ajax 
and  Ulysses  for  the  arms  of  the  dead  Achilles ;  and  it 
has  the  additional  interest  of  recalling  the  declamatory 
studies  of  the  poet’s  youth.  It  is  throughout  a  magnifi¬ 
cent  piece  of  rhetoric.  The  blunt  energy  of  Ajax,  and 
the  craft  and  persuasiveness  of  Ulysses,  are  admirably 
given.  The  elder  Seneca,  in  the  passage  already  quoted, 
mentions  that  the  poet  was  indebted  for  some  of  his 
materials  and  language  to  his  teacher,  Porcius  Latro, 
one  of  whose  declamations  on  “  The  Contest  for  the 
Arms”  Seneca  had  either  heard  or  read.  One  phrase  is 
specified  as  having  been  borrowed  from  this  source.  It 
is  the  fiery  challenge  with  which  Ajax  clenches  his 
argument : 

n Enough  of  idle  words!  let  hands,  not  tongues, 

Show  what  we  are !  Fling  'mid  yon  hostile  ranks 
Our  hero's  armor : — bid  us  fetch  it  thence : — 

And  be  it  his  who  first  shall  bring  it  back  /” 

The  piece  is  too  long  to  be  given  (it  fills  more  than  half 
of  the  thirteenth  book),  and  its  effect  would  be  lost  in 
extracts.  A  few  lines,  however,  from  the  beginning 
may  be  quoted;  and  indeed  nothing  throughout  is  more 
finely  put.  It  may  be  as  well  to  mention  that  the  ships 
spoken  of  htid  been  in  imminent-  danger  of  tlestmotioa 


METAMORPHOSES  OR  TRANSFORMA  TlONS.  71 


at  the  hand  of  Hector,  and  that  Ajax  had  at  least  some 
claim  to  be  called  their  preserver : 

“  On  high  the  chieftains  sat:  the  common  throng 
Stood  in  a  dense  ring  around;  then  Ajax  rose, 

Lord  of  the  seven-fold  shield;  and  backward  glanced, 
Scowling,  for  anger  mastered  all  his  soul, 

Where  on  Sigaeum’s  shore  the  fleet  was  ranged, 

And  with  stretched  hand :  ‘  Before  the  ships  we  plead 
Our  cause,  great  heaven !  and  Ulysses  dares 
Before  the  ships  to  match  himself  with  me  l’  ” — 0. 


It  may  be  noticed,  as  a  proof  that  Ovid  went  out  of  his 
way,  in  introducing  this  episode,  to  make  use  of  material 
to  which  he  attached  a  special  value,  that  the  narrative 
is  not  really  connected  with  any  transformation.  Ajax, 
defeated  by  the  act  which  gives  the  arms  to  his  rival, 
falls  upon  his  sword ;  and  the  turf,  wet  with  his  blood, 

“  Blossomed  with  the  self-same  flower 
That  erst  had  birth  from  Hyacinthus’  wound, 

And  in  its  graven  cup  memorial  bears 
Of  either  fate,— the  characters  that  shape 
Apollo’s  wailing  cry,  and  Ajax’  name.” 


What  these  characters  were  we  learn  from  the  end  of 
the  story  here  alluded  to,  of  how  the  beautiful  Hyacin¬ 
thus  was  killed  by  a  quoit  from  the  hand  of  Apollo,  and 
how 


“The  blood 

That  with  its  dripping  crimson  dyed  the  turf 
Was  blood  no  more:  and  sudden  sprang  to  life 
A  flower  that  wore  the  lily’s  shape,  but  not 
The  lily’s  silver  livery,  purple-hued 
And  brighter  than  all  tinct  of  Tyrian  shells: 
Nor  with  that  boon  of  beauty  satisfied, 

Upon  the  petals  of  its  cup  the  God 
Stamped  legible  his  sorrow’s  wailing  cry, 
And‘Ai!  Ai  I’  ever  seems  the  flower  to  say.” 


Two  more  specimens  must  conclude  this  chapter. 
Pygmalion’s  statue  changing  into  flesh  and  blood  at  the 


72 


OVID. 


sculptor’s  passionate  prayer  is  a  subject  after  Ovid’s 
own  heart,  and  he  treats  it  with  consummate  delicacy 
and  skill: 

“  The  Sculptor  sought 

His  home,  and  bending  o’er  the  couch  that  bore 

His  Maiden’s  lifelike  image,  to  her  lips 

Fond  pressed  his  own,— and  lo!  her  lips  seemed  warm, 

And  warmer,  kissed  again:— and  now  his  hand 
Her  bosom  seeks,  and  dimpling  to  his  touch 
The  ivory  seems  to  yield,— as  in  the  Sun 
The  waxen  labor  of  Hymettus’  bees, 

By  plastic  fingers  wrought,  to  various  shape 
And  use  by  use  is  fashioned.  Wonder-spelled, 

Scarce  daring  to  believe  his  bliss,  in  dread 
Lest  sense  deluded  mock  him,  on  the  form 
He  loves  again  and  yet  again  his  hand 
Lays  trembling  touch,  and  to  his  touch  a  pulse 
Within  throbs  answering  palpable: — ’twas  flesh! 

’Twas  very  Life ! — Then  forth  in  eloquent  flood 
His  grateful  heart  in  thanks  to  Venus  poured! 

The  lips  he  kissed  were  living  lips  that  felt 
His  passionate  pressure; — o’er  the  virgin  cheeks 
Stole  deepening  crimson and  the  unclosing  eyes 
At  once  on  Heaven  and  on  their  Lover  looked!” 

The  fifteenth  or  last  book  of  the  “Metamorphoses” 
contains  an  eloquent  exposition  of  the  Pythagorean 
philosophy.  Pythagoras,  a  Greek  by  birth,  had  made 
Italy,  the  southern  coasts  of  which  were  indeed  thickly 
studded  with  the  colonies  of  his  nation,  the  land  of  his 
adoption,  and  the  traditions  of  his  teaching  and  of  his 
life  had  a  special  interest  for  the  people  to  which  had 
descended  the  greatness  of  all  the  races — Oscan,  Etrus¬ 
can,  Greek — which  had  inhabited  the  beautiful  penin¬ 
sula.  A  legend,  careless,  as  such  legends  commonly 
are,  of  chronology,  made  him  the  preceptor  of  Numa, 
the  wise  king  to  whom  Rome  owed  so  much  of  its  wor¬ 
ship  and  its  law.  The  doctrine  most  commonly  con- 


METAMORPHOSES  OR  TRANSFORMATIONS.  73 


nected  with  his  name  was  that  of  the  metempsychosis, 
or  transmigration  of  souls  from  one  body  to  another, 
■whether  of  man  or  of  the  lower  animals,  though  it 
probably  did  not  occupy  a  very  prominent  part  in  his 
philosophy.  It  was  an  old  belief  of  the  Aryan  race, 
and  it  had  a  practical  aspect  which  commended  it  to 
the  Roman  mind,  always  more  inclined  to  ethical  than 
to  metaphysical  speculations.  Virgil,  in  that  vision  of 
the  lower  world  which  occupies  the  sixth  book  of  his 
great  epic,  employs  it — partly,  indeed,  as  a  poetical 
artifice  for  introducing  his  magnificent  roll  of  Roman 
worthies,  but  also  in  a  more  serious  aspect,  as  suggest¬ 
ing  the  method  of  those  purifying  influences  which 
were  to  educate  the  human  soul  for  higher  destinies. 
Ovid  sees  in  it  the  philosophical  explanation  of  the 
marvels  which  he  has  been  relating,  and,  as  it  were, 
their  vindication  from  the  possible  charge  of  being 
childish  fables,  vacant  of  any  real  meaning,  and  un¬ 
worthy  of  a  serious  pen.  The  passage  which  follows 
refers  to  a  practical  rule  in  which  we  may  see  a  natural 
inference  from  the  philosophical  dogma.  If  man  is  so 
closely  allied  to  the  lower  animals — if  their  forms  are 
made,  equally  with  his,  the  receptacles  of  the  one  di¬ 
vine  animating  spirit — then  there  is  a  certain  impiety 
in  his  slaughtering  them  to  satisfy  his  wants.  Strangely 
enough,  the  progress  or  revolution  of  human  thought 
has  brought  science  again  to  the  doctrine  of  man’s 
kindred  with  the  animals,  though  it  seems  altogether 
averse  to  the  merciful  conclusion  which  Pythagoras 
drew  from  it. 

“  What  had  ye  done,  ye  flocks,  ye  peaceful  race 
Created  for  Man’s  blessing,  that  provide 
To  slake  his  thirst  your  udder’s  nectarous  draught. 

That  with  your  fleece  wrap  warm  his  shivering  limbs, 


74 


OVID. 


And  serve  him  better  with  your  life  than  death?— 
What  fault  was  in  the  Ox,  a  creature  mild 
And  harmless,  docile,  born  with  patient  toil 
To  lighten  half  the  labor  of  the  fields? — 

Ungrateful  he,  and  little  worth  to  reap 
The  crop  he  sowed,  that,  from  the  crooked  share 
Untraced,  his  ploughman  slew,  and  to  the  axe 
Condemned  the  neck  that,  worn  beneath  his  yoke, 
For  many  a  spring  his  furrows  traced,  and  home 
With  many  a  harvest  dragged  his  Autumn-wain! 
Nor  this  is  all:— but  Man  must  of  his  guilt 
Make  Heaven  itself  accomplice,  and  believe 
The  Gods  with  slaughter  of  their  creatures  pleased, 
Lo !  at  the  altar,  fairest  of  his  kind, — 

And  by  that  very  fairness  marked  for  doom, — 

The  guiltless  victim  stands,— bedecked  for  death 
With  wreath  and  garland !— Ignorant  he  hears 
The  muttering  Priest, — feels  ignorant  his  brows 
White  with  the  sprinkling  of  the  salted  meal 
To  his  own  labor  owed,— and  ignorant 
Wonders,  perchance,  to  see  the  lustral  urn 
Flash  back  the  glimmer  of  the  lifted  knife 
Too  soon  to  dim  its  brightness  with  his  blood  1 
And  Priests  are  found  to  teach,  and  men  to  deem 
That  in  the  entrails,  from  the  tortured  frame 
Yet  reeking  torn,  they  read  the  hest  of  Heaven! — 

O  race  of  mortal  men !  what  lust,  what  vice 
Of  appetite  unhallowed,  makes  ye  bold 
To  gorge  your  greed  on  Being  like  your  own? 

Be  wiselier  warned:— forbear  the  barbarous  feast, 
Nor  in  each  bloody  morsel  that  ye  chew 
The  willing  laborer  of  your  fields  devour  I 
•  •  • 

All  changes:— nothing  perishes!— Now  here. 

Now  there,  the  vagrant  spirit  roves  at  will, 

The  shifting  tenant  of  a  thousand  homes: — 

Now,  elevate,  ascends  from  beast  to  man, — 

Now,  retrograde,  descends  from  nian.to  beast; — 
But  never  dies  /—Upon  the  tablet’s  page 
Erased,  and  written  fresh,  the  characters 
Take  various  shape,— the  wax  remains  the  same:— 
So  is  it  with  the  Soul  that,  migrating 


MBTAM0&PE08BS  OR  TRANSFORMATIONS.  75 


Through  all  the  forms  of  breathing  life,  retains 
Unchanged  its  essence.  Oh,  be  wise,  and  hear 
Heaven’s  warning  from  my  prophet-lips,  not  dare 
With  impious  slaughter,  for  your  glutton-greed, 

The  kindly  bond  of  Nature  violate, 

Nor  from  it  home  expel  the  Soul,  perchance 
Akin  to  yours,  to  nourish  blood  with  blood!” 

It  has  been  handed  down  to  us  on  good  authority  that 
Virgil,  in  his  last  illness,  desired  his  friends  to  commit 
his  “iEneid”  to  the  flames.  It  had  not  received  his 
final  corrections,  and  lie  was  unwilling  that  it  should 
go  down  to  posterity  less  perfect  than  he  could  have 
made  it.  Evidences  of  this  incompleteness  are  to  be 
found,  especially  in  the  occasional  inconsistencies  of 
the  narrative.  Critics  have  busied  themselves  in  dis¬ 
covering  or  imagining  other  faults  which  might  have 
been  corrected  in  revision.  The  desire,  though  it  doubt¬ 
less  came  from  a  mind  enfeebled  by  morbid  conditions 
of  the  body,  was  probably  sincere.  We  can  hardly 
believe  as  much  of  what  Ovid  tells  us  of  his  own  in¬ 
tentions  about  the  “Metamorphoses:”  “  As  for  the 
verses  which  told  of  the  changed  forms — an  unlucky 
work,  which  its  author’s  banishment  interrupted — these 
in  the  hour  of  my  departure  I  put,  sorrowing,  as  I  put 
many  other  of  my  good  things,  into  the  flames  with  my 
own  hands.”  Doubtless  he  did  so:  nothing  could  have 
more  naturally  displayed  his  vexation.  But  he  could 
hardly  have  been  ignorant  that  in  destroying  his  manu¬ 
script  he  was  not  destroying  his  work.  “As  they  did 
not  perish  altogether,”  he  adds,  “but  still  exist,  I  sup¬ 
pose  that  there  were  several  copies  of  them.”  But  it 
is  scarcely  conceivable  that  a  poem  containing  as  nearly 
as  possible  twelve  thousand  lines  should  have  existed 
in  several  copies  by  chance,  or  without  the  knowledge 
of  the  author.  When  he  says  that  the  work  never  re* 


% 


OVID. 


ceived  his  final  corrections,  we  may  believe  him,  though 
we  do  not  perceive  any  signs  of  imperfection.  It  is 
even  possible  that  he  employed  some  of  his  time  dur¬ 
ing  his  banishment  in  giving  some  last  touches  to  his 
verse. 

However  this  may  be,  the  work  has  been  accepted  by 
posterity  as  second  in  rank — second  only  to  Virgil’s 
epic — among  the  great  monuments  of  Roman  genius. 
It  has  been  translated  into  every  language  of  modem 
Europe  that  possesses  a  literature.  Its  astonishing  in¬ 
genuity,  the  unfailing  variety  of  its  colors,  the  flexi¬ 
bility  with  which  its  style  deals  alike  with  the  sublime 
and  the  familiar,  and  with  equal  facility  is  gay  and 
pathetic,  tender  and  terrible,  have  well  entitled  it  to 
the  honor,  and  justify  the  boast  with  which  the  poet 
concludes: 

“  So  crown  I  here  a  work  that  dares  defy 
The  wrath  of  Jove,  the  fire,  the  sword,  the  tooth 
Of  all-devouring  Time ! — Come  when  it  will 
The  day  that  ends  my  life’s  uncertain  term, — 

That  on  this  corporal  frame  alone  hath  power 
To  work  extinction,— high  above  the  Stars 
My  nobler  part  shall  soar,— my  Name  remain 
Immortal, — wheresoe’er  the  might  of  Rome 
O’erawes  the  subject  Earth  my  Verse  survive 
Familiar  in  the  mouths  of  men !— and,  if 
A  Bard  may  prophesy,  while  Time  shall  last 
Endure,  and  die  but  with  the  dying  World!” 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE  FASTI,  OR  ROMAN  CALENDAR. 

In  a  rich  and  leisurely  society  the  antiquarian  has 
usually  little  difficulty  in  gaining  a  hearing.  So  it 
was  at  Rome,  in  the  Augustan  age.  The  study  of  the 


TEE  EAST. X  on  ROMAN  CALENDAR.  11 

f 

national  antiquities  seems  to  have  been  a  particularly 
fashionable  pursuit.  Augustus,  indeed,  himself  did 
his  best  to  encourage  it.  It  was  the  dream  of  his  life 
to  reawaken  the  old  Roman  patriotism,  and  to  kindle 
in  the  men  of  his  own  day  something  like  the  senti¬ 
ments  of  the  past.  The  age  might  be  frivolous  and 
luxurious;  but  he  knew  well  that  the  Roman  mind 
was  profoundly  religious.  There  was  all  the  machin¬ 
ery  of  an  elaborate  ecclesiastical  ritual,  and  it  still 
commanded  respect.  Augustus  not  only  swayed  the 
armies  of  Rome — he  was  also  supreme  pontiff;  and 
no  doubt  any  arrangement  in  which  such  a  title  had 
been  omitted,  would  have  been  felt  to  be  imperfect. 
In  this  capacity  he  could  satisfy  the  vague  and  widely- 
diffused  popular  notion  which  connected  Rome’s  great¬ 
ness  with  her  religion.  The  gods  had  been  neglected, 
and  their  temples  had  fallen  into  decay  during  the 
civil  wars ;  and  we  may  well  believe  that  Horace  ex¬ 
pressed  what  was  in  the  minds  of  many  when  he  pro¬ 
phesied  dire  judgments  on  the  State  unless  the  sacred 
buildings  were  restored.*  To  this  work  the  emperor 
assiduously  applied  himself.  He  built  temple  after 
temple,  established  priesthoods,  and  revived  old  reli¬ 
gious  ceremonials.  Everywhere  in  the  capital  were 
now  to  be  seen  the  outward  signs  of  piety  and  devo¬ 
tion.  Religion,  in  fact — its  history,  its  ritual,  all  its 
ancient  associations — became  subjects  of  popular  inter¬ 
est;  and,  as  might  be  expected,  a  fashionable  poet 
could  not  do  otherwise  than  recognize  in  his  verses  the 
growth  of  this  new  taste  among  his  countrymen.  Kor 
would  he  find  any  difficulty  in  doing  so.  A  Roman 
could  seldom  be  original;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  there 


*  Odes,  iii.  6, 


78 


OVID. 


was  scarcely  anything  for  which  a  model  could  not  be 
found  in  Greek  literature.  Alexandria  had  long  been 
a  famous  literary  centre,  and  its  scholars  and  authors 
had  handled  every  conceivable  subject,  human  and 
divine.  There,  in  the  third  century  b.c.,  in  the  reigns 
of  Ptolemy  Pkiladelphus  and  Ptolemy  Euergetes,  had 
flourished  Callimachus,  specially  distinguished  by  his 
attainments  as  a  grammarian  and  critic.  He  was  at 
the  head,  as  he  no  doubt  well  deserved  to  be,  of  the 
great  library  of  Alexandria.  Unfortunately,  of  his 
more  learned  works,  which  were  on  a  vast  scale,  noth¬ 
ing  but  the  titles  and  a  few  meagre  fragments  have 
come  down  to  us.  He  was,  however,  a  poet  as  well  as 
a  scholar,  and  some  of  his  poems,  hymns,  and  epigrams 
have  survived.  It  appears  that  they  were  singularly 
popular,  though,  it  must  be  admitted,  they  remind  us 
of  the  familiar  proverb,  “A  poet  is  born,  not  made.” 
However,  it  is  certain  that  the  Roman  poets  of  the  Au¬ 
gustan  age  liked  them,  and  thought  it  worth  their  while 
to  imitate  them.  Catullus  has  done  this  in  his  famous 
poem  on  the  “Hair  of  Berenice.”  Propertius  even 
made  it  his  aim  to  be  a  Roman  Callimachus,  and  some¬ 
times  became  intolerably  obscure  and  affected  in  the 
attempt.  It  need  not  surprise  us  that  Ovid  followed  in 
the  wake  of  two  such  eminent  men.  He  knew  the  pub¬ 
lic  for  whom  he  was  writing;  he  knew,  too,  what  sort 
of  poems  would  be  approved  by  the  emperor  and  the 
court.  A  learned  poem,  dwelling  on  the  old  worship  of 
his  country,  and  commemorating  the  glories  of  its  great 
families,  would  appeal  successfully  to  a  wide  circle  of 
readers.  For  such  a  work  he  had  a  model  ready  to  his 
hand  in  an  epic  of  Callimachus,  which  appears  to  have 
given  in  detail  a  multitude  of  myths  and  legends,  with 
some  account  of  old  customs  and  religious  rites.  This 


THE  FASTI ;  OR  ROMAN  CALENDAR.  79 


poem,  which  has  not  come  down  to  us,  was  entitled 
“  Causes,”  and  was,  it  may  be  supposed,  a  learned  poet, 
ical  dissertation  on  the  cause  or  origin  of  the  various 
beliefs  current  among  mankind,  and  of  the  outward 
forms  in  which  they  had  embodied  themselves.  It  was 
this  elaborate  work  which  Ovid  undertook  to  imitate, 
and  perhaps  to  popularize.  The  result  is  the  poem 
commonly  known  as  the  “Fasti.” 

We  may  describe  this  work  as  a  sort  of  handbook  of 
the  Roman  Calendar,  or  as  a  poetical  almanac,  or  as  a 
ritual  in  verse.  It  gives,  as  Dean  Merivale  says,  “the 
seasons  and  reasons”  of  every  special  religious  worship 
and  ceremonial.  The  mythology  of  old  Rome  and  the 
legends  of  her  heroes  are  worked,  and  worked  with 
wonderful  success,  into  the  texture  of  the  poem.  What 
in  the  hands  of  a  mere  Dryasdust  would  have  been  in¬ 
tolerably  wTearisome  and  dull,  becomes  under  Ovid’s 
treatment  the  lightest  and  pleasantest  of  reading.  The 
marvellous  ease  and  dexterity  with  which  he  turns  his 
not  always  very  plastic  materials  into  the  smoothest  and 
most  graceful  verse,  perpetually  strikes  a  scholar  with 
amazement.  He  takes  a  story  or  a  legend  from  some 
old  annalist,  and  tells  it  with  a  neatness  and  a  finish 
which,  in  its  own  way,  has  never  been  rivalled.  This 
was  a  charm  which  a  Roman  must  have  appreciated 
better  than  we  can,  but  there  were  many  other  things 
which  tended  to  make  the  “Fasti”  a  thoroughly  popular 
poem.  It  must  have  been  pleasant  to  an  ordinary  reader 
to  have  picked  up  a  good  deal  of  antiquarian  lore  in  a 
few  hours  of  easy  and  delightful  reading.  The  book 
would  continually  have  been  in  the  hands  of  the  fash¬ 
ionable  lady,  who  would  think  that  it  became  her  posi¬ 
tion  to  know  something  about  the  meaning  and  rationale 
of  her  religious  observances.  And  we  may  take  for 


80 


OVID 


granted  it  would  please  Augustus.  Anything  which 
familiarized  the  people  with  old  beliefs  and  traditions 
would  be  certain  to  have  his  hearty  sympathies. .  The 
poet,  too,  of  course,  took  care  to  extol  and  magnify  the 
great  family  of  the  Julii,  and  to  hint  every  now  and 
then  that  Roman  grandeur  was  providentially  connected 
with  their  supremacy. 

Such  is  the  general  idea  and  purpose  of  the  poem. 
That  it  was  begun,  and  in  a  great  measure  completed, 
while  the  poet  was  still  living  at  Rome,  is  beyond  a 
doubt.  His  misfortune  (he  is  speaking  of  his  banish¬ 
ment)  had,  he  says,  interrupted  his  work.  Like  the 
“Metamorphoses,"  it  was  in  an  unfinished  condition 
when  he  was  driven  into  exile,  and  it  is  probable  that 
he  found  employment  and  consolation  in  giving  the 
finishing  touches  to  both  works.  Some  portions  were 
certainly  added  during  the  last  year  of  his  life.  In  one 
passage  he  deplores  the  remoteness  of  his  Scythian 
abode  from  his  native  Sulmo.  In  another,  he  speaks  of 
the  triumph  which  had  been  granted  to  Caesar  German- 
icus  for  his  victories  over  the  Clierusei,  Chatti,  and 
Angrivarii — a  triumph  voted  in  a.d.  15,  but  not  actually 
celebrated  till  two  years  afterwards.  And  a  third  pass¬ 
age  seems  to  allude  to  a  great  work  of  temple  restoration 
which  the  Emperor  Tiberius  brought  to  an  end  in  the 
latter  year. 

The  poem,  as  we  have  it,  is  in  six  books;  originally 
(of  this  there  can  hardly  be  a  doubt)  it  consisted  of 
twelve,  each -month  of  the  Roman  calendar  having  a 
book  devoted  to  it.  The  calendar,  like  our  own  week, 
had  a  religious  basis.  Some  of  the  months  took  their 
names  from  Roman  divinities.  March  had  been  the  first 
month  in  the  old  calendar,  according  to  which  the  year 
was  diyided  into  ten  months.  The  first  Csesar,  who 


THE  FASTI  OR  ROMAN  CALENDAR,  81 


laid  Ms  reforming  hand  on  everything,  brought  his 
universal  knowledge  to  bear  on  this  intricate  subject, 
and  introduced  a  new  arrangement  by  which  the  year 
was  henceforth  to  be  made  up  of  twelve  months,  Janu¬ 
ary  being  the  first.  Ovid  represents  the  god  Janus  as 
visibly  appearing  to  him,  and  explaining  his  origin  and 
attributes.  A  key  is  in  his  left  hand,  as  a  symbol  of  his 
august  office  as  the  Beginner  and  Opener  of  all  things. 
He  addresses  Ovid  as  the  “laborious  poet  of  the  Days,” 
and  then  unfolds  his  various  mysterious  functions,  and 
the  meaning  of  the  two  faces  which  were  regarded  as 
his  appropriate  representation. 

The  poet  describes  himself  as  encouraged  to  continue 
the  dialogue.  He  wants  to  know  why  the  year  should 
begin  with  cold,  rather  than  what  might  seem  a  more 
appropriate  commencement,  the  warmth  of  spring.  He 
is  told  that  it  follows  the  sun,  which  now,  gathering 
strength  and  lengthening  its  course,  begins  a  new  exist¬ 
ence.  “  Why  should  not  New-Year’s  day  be  a  holiday?” 
“  We  must  not  begin  by  setting  an  example  of  idleness.” 
Then,  after  other  questions,  “What  is  the  meaning  of 
the  customary  gift  of  palm,  and  dried  figs,  and  honey 
in  the  white  comb?”  “It  is  well  that  the  year,  if  it  is 
to  be  sweet,  should  begin  with  sweets.”  “  But  why 
presents  of  money  ?” 

“  He  smiled.  1  Strange  fancies  of  your  time  you  hold, 

To  think  that  honey  is  as  sweet  as  gold ! 

Scarce  one  I  knew  in  Saturn’s  golden  reign, 

Whose  master-passion  was  not  love  of  gain. 

And  still  with  time  it  grew  and  rules  to-day 
So  widely,  nothing  can  extend  its  sway. 

Not  thus  were  riches  prized  in  days  of  yore, 

When  Rome  was  new,  and  scant  its  people’s  store. 

Then  Mars’  great  son,  a  cottage  o’er  his  head, 

Of  river-sedges  made  his  narrow  bed. 


82 


OVID. 


So  small  his  temple,  Jove  could  scarcely  stand 
Upright,  his  earthen  thunder  in  his  hand 
Undecked  the  shrines  which  now  with  jewels  blaze; 

Each  lord  of  council  led  his  sheep  to  graze: 

And  felt  no  shame  that  sleep  should  lap  his  head 
With  hay  for  pillow  and  with  straw  for  bed. 

Fresh  from  the  plough  the  consul  ruled  the  state. 

And  fined  the  owner  of  a  pound*  of  plate.’  ” 

And  so  the  god  goes  on  inveighing  against  the  univer¬ 
sal  greed  of  gain,  though  he  owns  himself  in  the  end 
not  averse  to  the  more  sumptuous  manners  of  modern 
days: 

Bronze  once  they  gave ;  now  bronze  gives  place  to  gold, 
And  the  new  money  supersedes  the  old. 

We  too— we  praise  the  past,  yet  love  a  shrine 
Of  gold;— gold  suits  the  majesty  divine.” 

Janus  then  explains  the  significance  of  the  emblems 
on  the  coins  that  were  given  on  his  festival.  The  double 
head  on  one  side  was  his  own  likeness;  the  ship  on 
the  reverse  was  the  memorial  of  that  which  in  old 
time  had  borne  Saturn,  expelled  from  the  throne  of 
heaven,  to  his  kingdom  in  Italy.  A  description  of  his 
happy  reign  follows,  and  then  an  antiquarian  explana¬ 
tion  of  the  situation  of  his  temple,  opening,  as  it  did, 
on  the  two  market-places  of  Rome — the  cattle-market 
and  the  Forum  properly  so  called.  The  last  question 
which  the  curiosity  of  the  poet  suggests  refers  to  the 
well-known  custom  which  kept  the  temple  open  when 
the  State  was  at  war,  and  shut  it  on  the  rare  occa¬ 
sions  (three  only  are  recorded  as  having  occurred  dur¬ 
ing  the  time  of  the  Commonwealth)  when  it  was  at 
peace : 


♦The  real  quantity  allowed  was  five  -pounds;  but  the  transla¬ 
tion  fairly  represents  the  exaggeration  of  the  original. 


TEE  FASTI,  OR  ROMAN  CALENDAR  88 


“  ‘  In  war,  all  bolts  drawn  back,  my  portals  stand, 

Open  for  hosts  that  seek  their  native  land; 

In  peace,  fast  closed,  they  bar  the  outward  way, 

And  still  shall  bar  it  under  Caesar’s  sway.’ 

He  spake:  before,  behind,  his  double  gaze 
All  that  the  world  contained  at  once  surveys; 

And  all  was  peace;  for  now  with  conquered  wave, 

The  Rhine,  Germanicus,  thy  triumph  gave. 

Peace  and  the  friends  of  peace  immortal  make, 

Nor  let  the  lord  of  earth  his  work  forsake  1” 

Under  the  same  day,  the  first  of  January,  is  recorded 
the  dedication  of  the  temples  of  Jupiter  and  iEscula- 
pius.  Under  the  fifth  is  noted  the  setting  of  the  con¬ 
stellation  of  Cancer — information  which  the  poet  tells 
us  he  means  to  give  whenever  occasion  demands.  Five 
other  days  of  the  month  are  similiarly  distinguished. 
On  the  eleventh  of  January  occurs  the  festival  of  the 
Agonalia,  and  Ovid  takes  the  opportunity  to  display 
his  etymological  learning  in  accounting  for  the  name. 
Was  it  given  bacause  the  priest,  as  he  stood  ready  to 
Bmite  the  victim,  said,  “Shall  I  strike?”  (Agone?)  or 
because  the  beasts  do  not  come  of  their  own  accord, 
but  are  driven  ( aguntur )  to  the  sacrifice?  Or  is  the 
word  Agnalia  ( the  sacrifice  of  lambs)  with  the  “0”  in¬ 
serted?  or  does  it  come  from  the  agony  with  which  the 
victim  sees  the  shadow  of  the  sacrificial  knife  in  the 
water?  or  is  it  derived  from  the  Greek  word  for  the 
games  {agones)  which  formed  part  of  the  festival  in  old 
times?  Ovid’s  own  view  is  that  agonia  was  an  old 
word  for  the  animals  which  it  was  customary  to  sacri¬ 
fice.  With  characteristic  ingenuity,  he  digresses  into 
an  elegant  history  of  the  growth  of  sacrifice.  Meal 
and  salt  sufficed  for  the  simple  offerings  of  early  days. 
No  spices  then  had  come  from  across  the  sea.  Savin 
and  the  crackling  bay-leaf  gave  perfume  enough;  and 


84 


OVID . 


it  was  only  the  Wealthy  who  could  add  violets  to  the 
garlands  of  wild  flowers.  The  earliest  victim  was  the 
pig,  which  was  sacrificed  to  Ceres,  in  punishment  for 
the  injury  that  he  did  to  the  crops  under  her  protection. 
Warned  by  his  fate,  the  goat  should  have  spared  the  vine- 
shoots;  but  he  offended,  and  fell  a  victim  to  the  wrath 
of  Bacchus.  The  pig  and  the  goat  were  guilty.  But  how 
had  the  ox  and  sheep  offended?  The  ox  first  suffered 
at  the  bidding  of  Proteus,  from  whom  the  shepherd 
Aristseus,  disconsolate  at  the  loss  of  his  bees,  learnt 
that  a  carcass  buried  in  the  ground  would  furnish  him 
with  a  new  supply.*  The  sheep  was  guilty,  it  would 
seem,  of  eating  the  sacred  herb  vervian.  What  animal 
could  hope  to  escape,  when  the  ox  and  the  sheep  per¬ 
ished?  The  Sun-god  demanded  the  horse,  swiftest  of 
animals;  Diana,  the  hind,  which  once  had  been  made 
the  substitute  for  the  maiden  Iphigenia.f  “  I  myself," 
says  Ovid,  “have  seen  the  wild  tribes  who  dwell  near 
the  snow  of  Heemus  sacrifice  the  dog  to  Hecate." 
Even  the  ass  falls  a  victim  to  Silenus,  who  could  never 
forgive  him  for  an  untimely  bray.  Birds  suffer  because 
they  reveal  the  counsels  of  the  gods  by  the  indications 
of  the  future  which  soothsayers  detect  in  their  move¬ 
ments  and  their  cries.  The  goose  is  not  protected  by 


*  This  notion  that  the  corruption  of  animal  matter  would  pro¬ 
duce  bees  seems  to  have  been  a  serious  belief  among  the 
ancients.  Virgil,  who  writes  about  bees  as  if  he  really  knew 
something  of  the  subject,  recommends  the  process  with  apparent 
Seriousness,  though  it  is  possible  that  he  used  it  as  a  convenient 
introduction  for  the  legend  of  Aristae  us,  with  its  beautiful  episode 
of  Orpheus  and  Eurydice. 

t  The  feeling  of  later  times  revolted  against  the  legend  which 
represented  Iphigenia  as  really  sacrificed  to  appease  the  powers 
which  hindered  her  father’s  enterprise.  Just  so  we  find  the  story 
of  Jephthah’s  vow  softened  down  to  something  less  barbarous. 


TM  FASTI,  on  ROMAN  CALENDAR.  85 

the  service  which  he  did  to  Rome  in  wakening  the 
defenders  of  the  Capitol.  And  the  cock,  who  summons 
the  day,  is  made  an  offering  to  the  Goddess  of  Night. 

The  thirteenth  of  the  month  introduces  the  story  of 
Evander,  one  of  the  graceful  narrations  with  which 
Ovid  relieves  the  antiquarian  details  of  the  “Fasti.” 
Evander  is  indeed  a  conspicuous  personage  in  Italian 
legend.  An  Arcadian  prince,  banished  in  early  youth 
from  his  native  land,  but  not  for  any  fault  of  his  own, 
he  had  settled  in  Italy  many  years  before  the  Trojan 
war.  He  was  in  extreme  old  age  when  iEneas,  carry¬ 
ing  with  him  the  fortunes  of  the  future  Rome,  landed 
on  the  Latin  shore;  and  he  gave  to  the  struggle  the 
support  of  his  first  alliance.  Yirgil  in  his  great  epic 
has  made  a  copious  use  of  the  story.  The  voyage  of 
the  Trojan  chief  up  the  unknown  stream  of  Tiber  to 
the  homely  court  of  the  Arcadian  king,  his  hospitable 
reception,  the  valor  and  untimely  death  of  the  young 
Pallas,  who  leads  his  father’s  troops  to  fight  by  the  side 
of  the  destined  heirs  of  Italy,  furnish  some  of  the  most 
striking  scenes  in  the  “iEneid.”  Ovid,  in  describing 
Evander’s  arrival  in  Italy,  puts  into  his  mouth  a 
prophecy  of  the  future  greatness  of  Rome,  which  with 
characteristic  dexterity  he  turns  into  elaborate  flattery 
of  Tiberius  and  Livia,'  the  emperor’s  mother.  This 
passage,  which,  it  is  evident,  was  written  after  the 
death  of  Augustus,  is  one  of  the  many  proofs  that  the 
Fasti  were  kept  under  revision  until  close  upon  the 
end  of  the  poet’s  life.  To  the  legend  of  Evander  is 
attached  the  story  of  Hercules  and  Cacus.  Roman 
writers  were  anxious  to  make  their  own  country  the 
scene  of  some  of  the  wondrous  exploits  of  the  great 
“knight-errant”  of  antiquity.  The  tale  ran  as  fol- 
lows* 


m 


ovm 


Somewhere  near  the  strait  which  joins  the  Atlantic  to 
the  Inner  Sea  dwelt  Geryones,  a  hideous  monster  with 
triple  body,  master  of  a  head  of  oxen  of  fabulous 
beauty.  Him  the  wandering  Hercules  slew,  and  driv- 
ing  the  cattle  homewards  to  Argos,  found  himself — • 
having,  it  would  seem,  somewhat  lost  his  way — near 
Evander’s  city,  on  the  banks  of  Tiber.  He  was  hos¬ 
pitably  entertained  by  the  Arcadian;  and  his  cattle 
meanwhile  wandered  at  their  will  over  the  fields. 
Next  morning  he  missed  two  of  the  bulls.  It  seemed  in 
vain  to  search  for  them.  They  had  been  stolen,  indeed, 
but  the  robber  had  dragged  them  tail-foremost  into  his 
cave,  and  the  device  was  sufficient  to  puzzle  the  simple- 
minded  hero.  The  robber  was  Cacus,  the  terror  of  the 
Aventine  forest,  a  son  of  Yulcan,  huge  of  frame,  and 
strong  as  he  was  huge,  whose  dwelling  was  in  a  cave, 

t 

which  even  the  wild  beasts  could  hardly  find,  its  en¬ 
trance  hideous  with  limbs  and  heads  of  men,  and  its 
floor  white  with  human  bones.  Hercules  was  about  to 
depart,  when  the  bellowing  of  the  imprisoned  oxen 
reached  him.  Guided  by  the  sound,  he  found  the  cave. 
Cacus  had  blocked  the  entrance  with  a  large  mass  of 
rock,  which  even  five  yoke  of  oxen  could  scarcely  have 
stirred.  But  the  shoulders  that  had  supported  the 
heavens  were  equal  to  the  task.  The  rock  gave  way, 
and  the  robber  had  to  fight  for  his  prey  and  his  life. 
First  with  fists,  then  with  stones  and  sticks  he  fought, 
and  finding  himself  worsted,  had  recourse  to  his  father’s 
aid,  and  vomited  forth  fire  in  the  face  of  his  foe.  All 
was  in  vain;  the  knotted  club  descended,  and  the 
monster  fell  dying  on  the  ground.  The  victor  sacri¬ 
ficed  one  of  the  cattle  to  Jupiter,  and  left  a  memorial  of 
himself  in  the  ox-market,  the  name  of  which  was  traced, 
not  to  the  commonplace  explanation  of  its  use,  but  to 


THE  FASTI,  OR  ROMAN  CALENDAR.  87 


the  animal  which  the  victorious  son  of  Jupiter  had 
there  sacrificed  to  his  sire. 

What  remains  in  the  book  may  be  passed  over  with 
brief  notice.  The  thirteenth  of  the  month  was  dis¬ 
tinguished  as  the  day  on  which  Augustus  had  amused 
the  Roman  people,  and  gratified  his  own  passion  for 
veiling  despotism  under  republican  forms,  by  restoring 
to  the  senate  the  control  of  the  provinces  in  which 
peace  had  been  restored.  On  the  eighteenth  was  com¬ 
memorated  the  dedication  of  the  Temple  of  Concord, 
first  made  when  Camillus  had  reconciled  contending 
orders  in  the  State,  and  renewed  by  Tiberius  after  com¬ 
pleting  his  German  conquests.  A  memorable  holiday, 
that  of  the  “sowing  day,"  was  fixed  at  the  discretion 
of  the  pontiff,  near  the  end  of  the  month.  The  thir¬ 
tieth  commemorated  the  dedicatiion  of  the  altar  to 
Peace,  and  afforded  the  poet  yet  another  opportunity 
of  offering  his  homage  to  the  house  of  Augustus: 

“  Her  tresses  bound  with  Actium’s*  crown  of  bay, 

Peace  comes;  in  all  the  world,  sweet  goddess  stay  I 
Her  altar  flames,  ye  priests,  with  incense  feed, 

Bid  ’neath  the  axe  the  snow-white  victim  bleed  I 
Pray  willing  heaven,  that  Caesar’s  house  may  stand, 

Long  as  the  peace  it  gives  a  wearied  landl” 

It  would  weary  the  reader,  even  did  space  permit, 
to  go  into  like  detail  through  the  poet’s  account  of 
each  month.  He  begins  each  with  an  attempt  to 
determine  the  etymology  of  its  name.  That  of  Feb¬ 
ruary,  he  tells  us,  was  to  be  found  in  the  word  februa , 
a  name  given  by  the  Romans  of  old  to  certain  offerings 


*  At  the  battle  of  Actium  (fought  b.c.  31)  the  civil  wars  which 
had  raged  at  intervals  for  more  than  sixty  years  were  brought 
to  a  final  close  by  the  victors  of  Octavious  Caesar  over  his  rival 
Antony. 


88 


OVID. 


of  a  purifying  and  expiatory  nature  used  at  this 
time.  The  purification  of  the  flocks  and  herds,  as 
well  as  of  human  beings,  was  a  very  important  ele¬ 
ment  in  the  religious  life  of  Rome;  and  the  words  lus¬ 
trum  and  lustratio,  which  denote  certain  forms  of  puri¬ 
fication,  are  well  known  to  every  student  of  Roman 
history.  February  is  therefore  the  “purifying” 
month;  and  its  name  thus  testifies  to  a  widespread  be¬ 
lief  in  the  need  of  cleansing  and  expiation.  March,  of 
course,  takes  its  name  from  the  god  Mars,  the  father  of 
Rome’s  legendary  founder.  For  April  the  poet  gives 
a  fanciful  etymology.  “Spring,”  he  says,  “opens” 
( aperit )  “all  things;”  and  so,  he  adds,  “April,  accord¬ 
ing  to  tradition,  means  the  '  open  ’  time”  ( aperlum  tern- 
pus).  It  is  the  time  of  love;  and  Venus  during  this 
month  is  in  the  ascendant,  “the  goddess  who  is  all- 
powerful  in  earth,  in  heaven,  in  sea.”  For  the  next 
month,  May,  Ovid  confesses  that  he  has  no  satisfactory 
theory  to  offer  as  to  its  name.  He  suggests  that  it  is 
formed  from  the  root  of  major  and  majestas.  “May,”  he 
says,  “is  the  month  for  old  men;  and  its  special 
function  is  to  teach  the  young  reverence  for  age. 
“Majestas/-  indeed,  was  regarded,  after  Roman  fash¬ 
ion — which  delighted  in  real  personifications — as  a 
divinity,  whom  Romulus  and  Numa  worshipped  as  the 
upholder  of  filial  reverence  and  obedience,  and  also  as 
the  rightful  disposer  of  offices  and  honors  of  State  in 
their  due  order.  With  this  divinity  the  month  of  May 
was  associated.  June  is  Juno’s  month,  though  Ovid 
admits  that  the  explanation  is  doubtful.  He  repre¬ 
sents  the  goddess  as  appearing  to  him  in  a  secluded 
grove  when  he  was  pondering  within  himself  on  the 
origin  of  the  name.  She  tells  him  that,  as  he  has  un¬ 
dertaken  to  celebrate  in  his  verse  the  religious  festivals 


The  fasti,  or  roman  calendar.  89 

of  Rome,  be  has  thereby  won  for  himself  the  privilege 
of  beholding  the  divine  essence.  As  she  was  both  the 
wife  and  sister  of  Jupiter,  her  month  would  speak  to 
the  public  of  Rome  of  the  marriage-tie  and  of  family 
bonds.  With  the  sixth  book  the  Fasti,  as  we  have 
them,  come  to  an  end. 

The  name  having  been  thus  accounted  for,  astro¬ 
nomical  occurrences,  religious  ceremonies,  matters  of 
ritual,  the  anniversaries  of  dedications  of  temples  and 
altars,  and  the  like,  are  duly  recorded,  the  poet  avail¬ 
ing  himself  of  every  opportunity  to  introduce  some  his¬ 
torical  or  mythological  legend.  They  are  the  most 
attractive  part  of  the  work,  for  Ovid  is  always  happy  in 
narrative.  Among  the  most  noticeable  of  the  historical 
class  is  the  tale  of  the  three  hundred  and  six  Fabii  who 
fell  on  the  plains  of  Yeii,  in  the  battle  of  the  Cremera, 
fighting  with  an  heroic  courage,  in  which  Roman 
patriotism  found  a  match  for  the  great  deed  of  Leoni¬ 
das  and  his  three  hundred  Spartans  at  Thermopylae. 
Indeed,  though  it  would  be  rash  to  deny  altogether  the 
genuineness  of  the  narrative,  there  is  something  suspi¬ 
cious  about  the  Roman  legend.  The  historians  of  Rome 
had  indeed  a  singular  power  of  embellishment  and  in¬ 
vention,  and  it  is  not  doing  them  any  injustice  to  sup¬ 
pose  that  the  original  story,  whatever  it  may  have  been, 
grew  somewhat  beneath  their  hands.  The  legend,  to 
which  the  reader  may  give  such  credence  as  he  pleases, 
runs  thus : 

In  the  early  days  of  the  Commonwealth,  Rome  was 
troubled  much  by  dissension  at  home,  and  by  the  at¬ 
tacks  of  her  Etruscan  neighbors  on  the  north.  The 
great  house  of  the  Fabii  had  fallen  into  disfavor  with 
their  countrymen.  What  could  they  do  better  than  at 
once  rid  the  city  of  a  presence  which  was  no  longer 


so 


OVID. 


welcome,  while  they  served  their  country  by  attacking 
its  enemies  abroad?  So  they  go  forth,  a  little  band, 
wholly  composed  of  men  of  the  Fabian  race.  “  One 
house,”  says  the  poet,  “had  taken  on  itself  the  whole 
might  and  burden  of  Rome:  any  one  of  them  was 
worthy  to  be  a  commander.”  They  cross  the  Cremera, 
one  of  the  tributaries  of  the  Tiber,  a  little  stream  then 
swollen  by  the  melting  of  the  snows  of  winter.  The 
enemy  fly  before  them ;  they  penetrate  into  a  Wooded 
plain  well  fitted  for  the  treacherous  ambuscade. 
“Whither  do  ye  rush,  O  noble  house?  to  your  peril 
do  you  trust  the  foe.  Simple-hearted  nobility,  beware 
of  the  weapons  of  treachery!”  All  in  a  moment  the 
enemy  issue  from  the  woods,  and  escape  is  utterly  cut 
off.  “What  can  a  few  brave  heroes  do  against  so  many 
thousands?  What  resource  is  left  them  in  so  dire  a 
crisis?”  But  the  Fabii  did  not  die  unavenged:  “as  the 
boar  in  the  forests  of  Laurentum,  when  at  last  brought 
to  bay,  deals  havoc  among  the  hounds,”  so  these 
intrepid  warriors  fall  amid  a  multitude  of  jBlain  foes. 
“Thus,”  as  the  poet  says,  “a  single  day  sent  forth 
all  the  Fabii  to  the  war;  a  single  day  destroyed  them 
all.”  But  one  of  the  family  was  left,  a  stripling,  who 
could  not  as  yet  bear  arms.  This  was  a  special  provi¬ 
dence.  The  gods  took  care  that  the  house  descended 
from  Hercules  should  not  be  utterly  extinguished.  It 
had  a  great  destiny  before  it.  “  The  stripling  was  pre¬ 
served,”  the  poet  says,  “that  he  who  was  surnamed 
Maximus,  as  Hannibal’s  formidable  antagonist,  might 
hereafter  be  born,”  the  man  who,  by  his  policy  of  delay 
( cunctando ,  whence  his  surname  of  Cunctator),  was  to 
restore  the  fortunes  of  Rome. 

Another  well-told  legend  is  that  of  the  translation  * 


*  Book  ii.  481. 


TEE  FASTI,  OR  ROMAN  CALENDAR.  91 


and  deification  of  Romulus:  “When  his  father,  mighty 
in  arms,  saw  the  new  walls  of  the  city  completed,  and 
many  a  war  ended  by  his  son’s  prowess,  he  uttered  this 
prayer  to  Jupiter:  ‘  Rome’s  power  now  is  firmly  planted; 
she  needs  not  my  child’s  help.  Restore  the  son  to 
the  father;  though  one  has  perished,  I  shall  still  have 
one  left  me  in  his  own  stead  and  in  the  stead  of  Remus. 
There  will  be  one  for  thee  to  raise  to  the  azure  vault  of 
heaven :  thou  hast  spoken  the  word ;  Jove’s  word  must 
be  fulfilled.’”  The  prayer  was  at  once  granted,  and, 
amid  parting  clouds,  the  king,  while  he  was  in  the  act 
of  administering  justice  to  his  people,  was  carried  up 
with  peals  of  thunder  and  lightning-flashes  into  the 
heavens,  on  his  father’s  steeds.  The  grief  of  Rome  was 
solaced  by  a  vision  of  the  departed  hero,  who  appeared 
to  one  of  the  Julii  as  he  was  on  his  way  from  Alba 
Longa.  “Suddenly,  with  a  crash,  the  clouds  on  his 
left  hand  parted  asunder;  he  drew  back,  and  his  hair 
stood  on  end.  Romulus  seemed  to  stand  before  him — 
a  grand  and  more  than  human  figure,  adorned  with  the 
robe  of  state.  He  seemed  to  say,  Forbid  Rome’s  citi¬ 
zens  to  mourn;  their  tears  must  not  insult  my  divinity. 
Let  them  offer  incense  and  worship  a  new  god,  Quiri- 
nus,  and  pursue  their  country’s  arts  and  the  soldier’s 
work.” 

Sometimes  the  poet  takes  his  readers  into  the  obscurer 
bypaths  of  the  old  Italian  mythology.  These  portions 
of  the  “  Fasti”  have  an  interest  for  scholars,  though  it 
would  appear  that  Ovid  had  by  no  means  a  profound  or 
philosophical  acquaintance  with  the  religion  of  his  an¬ 
cestors.  We  meet  with  the  names  of  divinities  which, 
to  the  ordinary  reader,  are  altogether  unfamiliar.  Sucb 
a  name  is  that  of  Anna  Perenna,  a  deified  sister  of  the 
Pii^uiciap  Pido?  according  to  tlie  accouptg  Ipotb  Ql 


D2 


OVID . 


Virgil  and  Ovid.  She  was  a  river-nymph,  and  ‘to  this 
her  name  Perenna  (everlasting)  was  meant  to  point, 
Her  story*  is  related  at  great  length  by  Ovid.  Her 
yearly  festival,  it  appears,  was  celebrated  on  the  Ides  of 
March,  and  was  a  somewhat  grotesque  ceremony.  The 
populace  had  a  sort  of  picnic  on  the  grassy  banks  of  the 
Tiber,  and  indulged  themselves  very  freely.  Indeed 
there  was  a  distinct  motive  to  drink  without  stint,  as  it 
was  the  custom  to  pray  for  as  many  years  of  life  as  they 
had  drunk  cups  of  wine.  The  connection  between  the 
two  is  not  to  us  very  obvious;  but,  if  we  may  trust  Ovid, 
there  were  those  who  would  drink  out  the  years  of  the 
long-lived  Nestor  in  the  hope  of  attaining  that  worthy’s 
age.  Some,  too,  to  judge  from  the  number  of  tlieir 
cups,  deserved  to  rival  the  Sibyl  in  longevity.  There 
they  sang  all  the  songs  they  had  heard  at  the  theatre, 
and  having  drunk  and  sung  to  their  heart’s  content, 
they  had  a  merry  dance.  One  is  not  surprised  to  hear 
that  many  of  them  cut  sorry  figures  on  their  return 
home.  “  I  lately  met  them,”  says  our  poet;  “a  drunken 
old  woman  was  dragging  along  a  drunken  old  man.” 
Let  us  hope  their  prayer  for  a  long  life  was  answered. 
He  ends  his  account  of  this  Anna  Perenna  with  an  amus¬ 
ing  little  story  about  her.  When  she  had  been  made 
a  goddess,  Mars  paid  her  a  visit,  and  had  some  private 
conversation  with  her.  “  You  are  worshipped,”  he  said, 
“  in  my  month;  I  have  great  hopes  from  your  kind  as¬ 
sistance.  1  am  on  fire  with  love  of  Minerva;  we  both  of 
us  bear  arms,  and  long  have  I  been  cherishing  my  pas¬ 
sion.  Contrive  that,  as  we  follow  the  same  pursuit,  we 
may  be  united.  The  part  well  becomes  you,  O  good- 
natured  old  woman !”  Anna  professed  her  willingness  to 


*  Bo<?k  iii, 


THE  FASTI i  OR  ROMAN  CALENDER.  93 


help  the  god  of  war,  and  undertook  the  delicate  business 
of  arranging  a  meeting.  However,  for  a  time  she  put 
him  off  with  promises;  but  at  last  the  ardent  lover 
was,  as  he  thought,  to  be  gratified.  So  the  god  hur¬ 
ried  off  to  meet  the  object  of  his  affections;  but  when 
in  his  impatience  he  raised  her  veil,  and  was  about  to 
snatch  a  kiss,  he  found  that  Anna  had  played  him  a 
trick,  and  had  dressed  herself  up  as  Minerva.  He  was 
naturally  angry  and  ashamed  of  himself,  all  the  more  so 
as  the  new  goddess  laughed  him  to  scorn,  and  as  his 
old  flame  Venus  thoroughly  enjoyed  the  joke.  It  ap¬ 
pears  that  this  legendary  hoax,  which  Ovid  tells  in 
his  best  way,  gave  occasion  to  a  number  of  sly  and 
humorous  sayings  among  the  merry  people  on  the 
banks  of  the  Tiber.  It  was,  no  doubt,  great  fun  for 
them  to  think  of  the  august  deity  to  whom  their  city 
wed  its  founder  and  first  king,  having  been  “sold”  in 
such  a  fashion. 

It  will  be  seen  from  this  instance  that  Ovid  knew  how 
to  relieve  what  might  seem  a  dry  subject  with  a  few 
light  touches.  His  “Fasti”  have  many  amusing  as 
well  as  beautiful  passages,  and  strikingly  illustrate  his 
consummate  skill  in  versified  narrative. 

CHAPTER  VI. 

DEPARTURE  FROM  ROME— THE  PLACE  OF  EXILE. 

A  well-known  paragraph  of  Gibbon’s  great  work 
describes  the  hopeless  condition  of  anyone  who  sought 
to  fly  from  the  anger  of  the  man  who  ruled  the  Roman 
world,  and  to  whom,  in  right  of  that  rule,  all  human  civ¬ 
ilization  belonged.  The  fugitive  could  not  hide  himself 
within  its  limits;  and  to  seek  escape  among  the  savage 


94 


OVID. 


and  hostile  tribes  which  lay  beyond  them  was  an  idea 
too  horrible,  if  it  had  not  been  too  preposterous,  to 
entertain.  The  historian  illustrates  his  remarks  by  the 
example  of  Ovid.  “He  received  an  order  to  leave 
Rome  in  so  many  days,  and  to  transport  himself  to 
Tomi.  Guards  and  jailers  were  unnecessary."  But  a 
culprit  visited  with  the  severer  forms  of  the  punish¬ 
ment  of  exile  would  have  been  more  carefully  watched. 
Such  persons  were  commonly  escorted  to  the  selected 
spot  by  a  centurion  whom,  in  more  than  one  instance, 
we  find  privately  instructed  to  inflict  the  capital  pen¬ 
alty  which  the  name  of  exile  had  only  veiled.  But  the 
concession  which,  in  the  case  of  the  milder  sentence, 
mitigated  the  harshness  of  the  punishment,  rendered 
such  custody  needless.  The  banished  person  was  then 
permitted  to  retain  the  income  of  his  property,  and  the 
permission  was  an  effectual  tie  to  the  place  in  which 
alone  that  income  would  be  paid  to  him. 

Another  proof  of  what  has  been  urged  in  a  previous 
chapter,  that  Ovid  had  no  dangerous  secrets  in  his  keep¬ 
ing,  may  be  found  in  the  prolonged  period  which  was 
allowed  him  to  prepare  for  his  banishment.  So  pro¬ 
longed  was  it,  he  tells  us  in  his  own  account  of  his  final 
departure  from  his  home,  that  he  had  suffered  himself 
to  forget  the  inevitable  end,  and  was  at  last  taken  by 
surprise.  The  whole  account  is  eminently  graphic  and 
not  a  little  pathetic,  and  it  shall  be  given  as  nearly  as 
possible  in  the  poet’s  own  words : 

“  When  there  starts  up  before  me  the  sad,  sad  picture  of  that 
night  wh'  was  the  last  of  my  life  in  Rome,  when  I  remember 
the  night  on  which  I  left  so  many  of  my  treasures,  even  now  the 
tear  falls  from  my  eyes.  The  day  had  almost  come  on  which 
Caesar  had  bid  me  pass  beyond  the  farthest  limits  of  Italy.  But 
1  had  not  had  the  thought  of  preparation.  Nay,  the  very  time 
had  h§en  against  mo ;  so  long  the  delay,  that  my  heart  had 


THE  EXILE  EUOM  LOME. 


05 


grown  slothful  at  the  thought  of  it.  I  had  taken  no  pains  to 
select  my  slaves,  or  to  choose  a  companion,  or  to  procure  the 
clothing  or  the  money  that  a  banished  man  required.  I  was  as 
dazed  as  one  who,  struck  by  the  bolts  of  Jupiter,  lives,  but  is  all 
unconscious  of  his  life.  But  when  my  very  grief  had  cleared 
away  the  mist  from  my  soul,  and  I  was  at  last  myself  again,  I 
addressed  for  the  last  time  ere  my  departure  my  sorrowing 
friends, — there  were  but  one  or  two  out  of  all  the  crowd.  My 
loving  wife  clasped  me  close ;  bitter  my  tears,  still  bitterer  hers, 
as  they  ever  poured  dow’n  her  innocent  cheeks.  My  daughter 
was  far  away  on  African  shores,  and  could  not  have  heard  of  her 
father’s  fate.  Look  where  you  wrould,  there  was  wailing  and 
groaning,  and  all  the  semblance  of  a  funeral,  clamorous  in  its 
grief.  My  funeral  it  was;  husband  and  wife  and  the  very  slaves 
were  mourners;  every  corner  of  my  house  was  full  of  tears. 
Such— if  one  may  use  a  great  example  for  a  little  matter— such 
was  the  aspect  of  Troy  in  its  hour  of  capture.  And  now  the 
voices  of  men  and  dogs  were  growing  still,  and  the  moon  wras 
guiding  high  in  heaven  the  steeds  of  night.  As  I  regarded  it, 
and  saw  in  its  light  the  two  summits  of  the  Capitol,— the  Capitol 
that  adjoined  but  did  not  protect  my  home,—1  Powers,’  I  cried, 
‘  who  dwell  in  these  neighboring  shrines,  and  temples  that  my 
eyes  may  never  look  upon  again,  and  ye  gods,  dwelling  in  the 
lofty  city  of  Romulus,  gods  whom  now  I  must  leave,  take  my 
farewrell  for  ever!  Too  late,  indeed,  and  already  wounded,  I 
snatch  up  the  shield ;  yet  acquit,  I  pray,  my  banishment  of  an 
odious  crime ;  and  tell  the  human  denizen  of  heaven  *  what  wras 
the  error  that  deceived  me,  lest  he  think  it  a  crime  I'ather  than  a 
mistake;  tell  it  that  the  author  of  my  punishment  may  see  the 
truth  which  you  know.  My  god  once  propitiated,  I  shall  be 
wretched  no  longer.  These  were  the  prayers  that  I  addressed 
to  heaven;  my  wrife,  with  sobs  that  stopped  her  words  half  wTay, 
spoke  many  more.  She,  too,  before  our  home-gods  threw  her¬ 
self  with  dishevelled  hair,  and  touched  with  trembling  lips  our 
extinguished  hearth.  Many  a  prayer  she  poured  out  in  vain  to 
their  hostile  deity,  words  that  might  avail  naught  for  the  hus» 
band  whom  she  mourned.  And  now  night,  hurrying  down  the 
steep,  forbade  further  delay,  and  the  Bear  of  Arcady  had 
traversed  half  the  sky.  What  could  I  do?  Tender  love  for  my 
country  held  me  fast;  but  that  night  was  the  last  before  my 


*  Augustus. 


§6 


ovii). 


doom  of  banishment.  Ah !  how  often  would  I  say,  when  some 
one  would  bid  me  haste,  ‘Why  hurry  me?  think  whither  you 
would  hasten  my  steps,  and  whither  I  must  go !’  Ah !  how  often 
did  I  pretend  to  have  settled  on  some  certain  hour  which  would 
suit  my  purposed  voyage!  Thrice  I  touched  the  threshold,* 
thrice  I  was  called  back;  my  very  feet,  as  if  to  indulge  my  heart, 
lingered  on  their  way.  Often,  farewell  once  spoken,  I  said  many 
a  word ;  often,  as  if  I  was  really  departing,  I  bestowed  my  last 
kisses.  Often  I  gave  the  same  commands;  I  cheated  my  own 
self,  as  I  looked  on  the  pledges  so  dear  to  my  eyes.  And  then, 
‘  Why  do  I  hasten?  It  is  Scythia  to  which  I  am  being  sent;  it  is 
Rome  which  I  have  to  leave;  both  justify  delay.  My  wife  is 
refused  to  me  for  ever,  and  yet  we  both  live;  my  family  and  the 
dear  member  of  that  faithful  family;  yes,  and  you,  my  compan¬ 
ions,  whom  I  loved  with  a  brother’s  love,  hearts  joined  to  mine 
with  the  loyalty  of  a  Theseus!  while  I  may,  I  embrace  you; 
perchance  I  may  never  do  so  again ;  the  hour  that  is  allowed  me 
is  so  much  gain.’  It  is  the  end:  I  leave  my  words  unfinished, 
while  I  embrace  in  heart  all  that  is  dearest  to  me.  While  I  speak, 
and  we  all  weep,  bright  shining  in  the  height  of  heaven,  Lucifer, 
fatal  star  to  us,  had  risen;  I  am  rent  in  twain,  as  much  as  if  I 
were  leaving  my  limbs  behind;  one  part  of  my  very  frame 
seemed  to  be  torn  from  the  other.  Such  was  the  agony  of 
Mettus  when  he  found  the  avengers  of  his  treachery  in  the  steeds 
driven  opposite  ways.  Then  rose  on  high  the  cries  and  the 
groanings  of  my  household,  then  the  hands  of  mourners  beat 
uncovered  breasts,  and  then  my  wife,  clinging  to  my  shoulder 
as  I  turned  away,  mingled  with  her  tears  these  mournful  words: 
‘You  cannot  be  torn  from  me;  together,  ah!  together  will  we 
go.  I  will  follow  you;  an  exile  myself,  I  will  be  an  exile’s  wife. 
For  me  too  is  the  journey  settled;  me  too  that  distant  land  shall 
receive;  ’tis  but  a  small  burden  that  will  be  added  to  the  exile’s 
bark.  ’Tis  the  wrath  of  Caasar  that  bids  thee  leave  thy  country 
—’tis  love  that  bids  me;  love  shall  be  in  Caesar’s  place.’  Such 
was  her  endeavor,— such  had  been  her  endeavor  before ;  scarcely 
would  she  surrender,  overpowered  by  expediency.  I  go  forth; 
it  was  rather  being  carried  forth  without  the  funeral  pomp;  I  go 
all  haggard,  with  hair  drooping  over  unshaven  face ;  and  she, 


*  To  touch  the  threshold  with  the  foot  in  crossing  it  was  con¬ 
sidered  unlucky. 


THE  EXILE  FROM  ROME. 


97 


they  tell  me,  as  in  her  grief  for  me  the  mist  rose  all  before  her, 
fell  fainting  in  the  midst  of  the  dwelling;  and  when,  her  hair  all 
smirched  with  the  unseemly  dust,  she  rose  again,  lifting  her 
limbs  from  the  cold  ground,  she  bewailed  now  herself,  now  her 
deserted  hearth,  and  called  again  and  again  the  name  of  her  lost 
husband,  and  groaned,  not  less  than  had  she  seen  the  high-built 
funeral  pile  claim  her  daughter’s  body  or  mine.  Gladly  would 
she  have  died,  and  lost  all  feeling  in  death;  and  yet  she  lost  it 
not,  out  of  thought  for  me.  Long  may  she  live;  live,  and  ever 
help  with  her  aid  her  absent— so  the  Fates  will  have  it— her  ab¬ 
sent  husband.”— The  “Sorrows,”  i.  3. 

It  was  in  the  month  of  December  that  the  poet  left 
Rome.  One  faithful  friend,  the  Fabius  Maximus  of 
whom  we  have  heard  before,  accompanied  him.  Fol¬ 
lowing  the  Appian  road  to  Brundusium,  then,  as  after 
many  centuries  it  has  become  again,  the  usual  route  of 
western  travellers  bound  eastward,  he  crossed  the 
Adriatic.  A  fearful  storm,  not  unusual  at  this  season, 
encountered  him  on  his  way;  and  the  indefatigable 
poet  describes  it  in  his  most  elegant  verse — too  elegant, 
indeed,  to  allow  us  to  suppose  that  it  was  written,  as 
it  claims  to  be,  in  the  very  midst  of  the  peril.  One 
god  was  hostile  to  him.  He  does  not  forget  his  flat¬ 
tery,  and  asks  might  not  another  (he  means  Augustus) 
help  him?  So  Minerva  had  helped  Ulysses,  while 
Neptune  sought  to  destroy  him.  But  it  seems  vain 
to  pray;  the  winds  will  not  allow  the  prayers  to  reach 
the  gods  to  whom  they  are  sent.  How  dreadful  is  the 
sight  1 — these  waves  that  now  reach  the  heavens,  now 
seem  about  to  sink  to  hell.  He  can  only  be  thankful 
that  his  wife  is  not  with  him,  and  does  not  know  of  his 
peril: 

“  An  exile’s  fate  her  pious  tears  deplore, 

This  is  the  woe  she  mourns,  and  knows  no  more; 

Knows  not  her  spouse  the  angry  waters’  prey, 

Tossed  by  wild  winds,  and  near  his  latest  day. 


OVID. 


$8 

Kind  Heaven,  I  thank  thee,  that  she  is  not  here, 

Else  death  had  chilled  me  with  a  double  fear. 

Now  though  I  perish,  this  the  Fates  will  give— 

Still  in  my  spirit’s  better  half  to  live.” 

His  terror  did  not  prevent  him  from  observing  or  ima¬ 
gining  that  each  tenth  wave  was  especially  formidable 
— a  fact  which  he  states  in  an  ingenious  phrase  that,  if 
it  was  really  invented  in  the  midst  of  the  storm,  does 
special  credit  to  its  author: 

“  The  ninth  it  follows,  the  eleventh  precedes.” 

The  tempest  abated,  and  the  poet  reached  his  destina¬ 
tion,  Lechseum,  the  eastern  harbor  of  “  Corinth  on  the 
two  seas.”  Traversing  the  isthmus  to  the  western  port, 
Cenchrea,  he  embarked  again.  This  time  he  tells  us 
the  name  of  his  ship.  The  passage  is  notable  as  one  of 
the  many  instances  in  which  our  poet’s  felicitous  mi¬ 
nuteness  of  description  increases  our  knowledge  of 
antiquity.  Nowhere  else  is  the  distinction  drawn  so 
clearly  between  the  union  of  the  tutelary  deity  under 
whose  protection  the  ship  was  supposed  to  be,  and  the 
representation  of  the  object  from  which  it  got  its 
name.  In  this  instance  the  vessel  was  called  The 
Helmet,  and  bore  on  its  deck  an  image  of  “Minerva 
of  the  Yellow  Locks.”  It  took  him,  he  tells  us, 
straight  to  the  Troad,  or  north-western  corner  of  Asia 
Minor.  Thence  it  sailed  to  Imbros,  and  from  this 
island  again  to  Samothrace.  It  seems  to  have  con¬ 
tinued  its  voyage  to  the  place  of  the  poet’s  destination, 
and  to  have  conveyed  thither  his  effects.  Ovid  him¬ 
self  took  passage  in  a  coasting  vessel  to  the  neighbor¬ 
ing  shore  of  Thrace,  and  made  the  rest  of  his  journey 
overland. 

Tomi,  or,  as  Ovid  himself  calls  it,  Tomis,  was  a 
city  of  Greek  origin  (it  was  a  colony  of  Miletus),  situ- 


TEE  EXILE  FROM  ROME. 


99 


ated  on  the  western  coast  of  the  Black  Sea,  about  two 
hundred  miles  to  the  north  of  Byzantium.  The  name 
may  be  rendered  in  English  by  The  Guts.  Possibly  it 
was  derived  from  a  canal  or  fosse  cut  to  the  nearest  point 
of  the  Danube,  which  here  approaches,  just  before 
making  its  last  bend  to  the  north,  within  the  distance 
of  fifty  miles.  The  so-called  Trajan  Wall  may  be  the 
remains  of  such  a  work,  which  probably  was  intended 
for  purposes  of  defence  rather  than  of  commerce, 
•though  the  project  of  a  ship  canal  between  the  two 
points  has  been  mooted  more  than  once.  The  lively 
fancy  of  the  poet  found  in  the  legend  of  Medea  a  more 
romantic  origin.  The  wicked  princess,  who  embodied 
the  poet’s  conception  of  the  wild  unscrupulous  passion 
of  the  oriental  character,  had  resorted,  when  closely 
pursued  in  her  flight,  to  a  terrible  expedient.  She 
slew  her  young  brother  Absyrtus,  the  darling  of  the 
angry  father  who  was  following  her.  His  head  she 
fixed  on  a  prominent  rock  where  it  could  not  escape 
the  notice  of  the  pursuers.  His  limbs  she  scattered 
about  the  fields.  She  hoped,  and  not  in  vain,  that  the 
parent’s  heart  would  bid  him  delay  his  voyage  till  he 
had  collected  the  human  remains.  It  was  said  that 
Tomi  was  the  place  where  the  deed  was  done,  and  that 
its  name  preserved  the  tradition  of  its  horrible  details. 

The  town  is  now  called  Kostendje,  a  corruption  of 
Constantina,  a  name  which  it  received  for  the  same 
reason  which  changed  Byzantium  into  Constantinople. 
It  was  situated  in  the  province  of  Lower  Moesia. 
Though  not  exactly  on  the  frontier,  which  was  here, 
nominally  at  least,  the  Danube,  it  was  practically  an 
outpost  of  the  empire.  The  plain  between  it  and  that 
river,  a  district  now  known  by  the  name  of  Dobruds- 
was  open  to  the  incursions  of  the  unsubdued 


100 


OVID. 


tribes  from  the  further  side  of  the  Danube,  who,  when 
they  had  contrived  to  effect  the  passage  of  the  river, 
found  nothing  to  hinder  them  till  they  came  to  the 
walls  of  Tomi. 

Ovid  describes  the  place  of  his  exile  in  the  gloomiest 
language.  Such  language,  indeed,  was  natural  in  the 
mouth  of  a  Roman.  To  him  no  charm  of  climate,  no 
beauty  of  scenery,  no  interest  of  historical  association, 
could  make  a  place  endurable,  while  Rome,  the  one 
place  in  the  world  which  was  worth  dwelling  in,  was 
forbidden  to  him.  It  might  have  been  supposed  that 
travel  in  Greece  would  have  been  attractive  to  Cicero, 
profoundly  versed  as  he  was  in  its  philosophy  and 
literature;  but  he  found  it  no  consolation  for  his 
banishment  from  Italy.  And  the  younger  Seneca, 
whom  we  may  almost  call  a  professional  philosopher, 
found  nothing  to  compensate  him  for  his  enforced 
absence  from  the  capital  in  the  exquisite  scenery  and 
climate  of  Corsica.  But  Tomi,  if  its  unfortunate  in¬ 
habitant  is  to  be  believed,  combined  in  itself  every 
horror.  It  was  in  the  near  neighborhood  of  savage 
and  barbarous  tribes,  and  was  safe  from  attack  only 
while  the  broad  stream  of  the  Danube  flowed  between 
it  and  the  enemy.  The  climate  was  terrible;  the  snow 
lay  often  unmelted  for  two  years  together.  The  north 
wind  blew  with  such  fury  that  it  levelled  buildings 
with  the  ground,  or  carried  away  their  roofs.  The 
natives  went  about  clad  in  garments  of  skin,  with  their 
faces  only  exposed  to  the  air.  Their  hair,  their  beards, 
were  covered  with  icicles.  The  very  wine  froze;  break 
the  jar  and  it  stood  a  solid  lump;  men  took  not 
draughts  but  bites  of  it.  The  rivers  were  covered  with 
ice;  the  Danube  itself,  though  it  was  as  broad  as  the 
Nile,  was  frozen  from  shore  to  shore,  and  became  a, 


THE  EXILE  FllOM  ROME. 


101 


highway  for  horses  and  men.  The  sea  itself,  incredible 
as  it  may  seem,  is  frozen.  “I,”  says  the  poet,  “have 
myself' walked  on  it.” 

“  Had  such,  Leander,  been  the  sea 
That  flowed  betwixt  thy  love  and  thee, 

Never  on  Helles’  narrow  strait 
Had  come  the  scandal  of  thy  fate.” 

“  The  dolphins  cannot  leap  after  their  wont:  let  the 
north  wind  rage  as  it  will,  it  raises  no  waves.  The 
ships  stand  firmly  fixed  as  in  stone,  and  the  oar  cannot 
cleave  the  waters.  You  may  see  the  very  fish  bound 
fast  in  the  ice,  imprisoned  but  still  alive.  But  the 
worst  of  all  the  horrors  of  winter  is  the  easy  access 
which  it  gives  to  the  barbarian  foe.  Their  vast  troops 
of  cavalry,  armed  with  the  far-reaching  bow,  scour  the 
whole  country.  The  rustics  fly  for  their  lives,  and 
leave  their  scanty  provisions  to  be  plundered.  Some, 
more  unlucky,  are  carried  off  into  captivity;  some  per¬ 
ish  by  the  arrows  which  this  cruel  enemy  dips  in 
poison.  And  all  that  the  enemy  cannot  carry  or  drive 
off,  he  burns.” 

It  is  difficult  to  suppose  that  some  of  these  state¬ 
ments  are  not  exaggerated.  The  climate  of  Bulgaria 
(the  name  which  Lower  Moesia  has  had  since  its  inva¬ 
sion  by  the  Bulgarians  in  the  seventh  century)  bears 
little  resemblance  to  that  which  Ovid  describes.  Ac¬ 
cording  to  Humboldt’s  maps  of  the  isothermal  lines  of 
the  world,  it  should  have  a  temperature  not  unlike  that 
of  northern  Spain.  Its  soil  is  described  as  fertile,  and 
the  vine  is  mentioned  as  one  of  its  chief  products. 
The  Danube  is  not  frozen  over  in  the  lower  as  it  is  in 
the  upper  parts  of  its  course  ;  and  though  the  harbors 
of  some  of  the  Black  Sea  ports — as,  for  instance,  of 
Odessa— are  soinetirpes  blocked  for  a  part  of  the  winter. 


102 


ovm 


the  phenomenon  is  not  known  in  the  neighborhood  of 
Kostendje.  On  the  other  hand,  Ovid’s  statements  are 
remarkably  precise.  He  anticipates  that  they  will  be 
disbelieved,  and  he  solemnly  avers  their  truth.*  And 
he  gives  among  his  descriptions  one  curious  fact  which 
he  is  not  likely  to  have  known  except  from  personal 
observation,  that  fish  retain  their  vitality  even  when 
firmly  embedded  in  ice.  It  is  quite  possible  that  the 
climate  may  have  materially  changed  since  Ovid’s 
time.  On  more  than  one  occasion  the  classical  poets 
speak  of  severities  of  cold  such  as  are  not  now  experi¬ 
enced  in  Italy  and  Greece.  If  we  allow  something  for 
such  change,  and  something  also  for  the  exaggeration 
which  not  only  expressed  a  genuine  feeling  of  disgust, 
but  might  possibly  have  the  effect  of  moving  compas¬ 
sion,  we  shall  probably  be  right. 

Ovid’s  life  in  exile,  the  details  of  which  are  brought 
out  in  the  poems  which  belong  to  this  period,  lasted 
about  eight  years.  He  left  Rome  in  the  month  of  De¬ 
cember  following  his  fifty-first  birthday ;  he  died  some 
time  before  the  beginning  of  the  September  after  hi3 
fifty-ninth. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE  POEMS  OF  EXILE:  THE  TRISTIA,  OR  THE 
“  SORROWS.” 

Ovid’s  pen  was  not  idle  during  the  melancholy  years 
of  exile  which  closed  his  life.  He  probably,  as  has 
been  said  before,  revised  the  “ Metamorphoses.”  It  is 
certain  that  he  added  largely  to  the  “Fasti.”  But  the 
special  poems  of  exile  are  the  “  Sorrows,”  the  “Letters 
from  tire  Pontus.”  and  the  “IMs.”  In  ibe  “borrows” 

v. 


THE  TRISTIA,  on  THE  “SORROWS”  103- 


and  the  “  Letters  from  the  Pontus”  Ovid  "Pours  forth  in 
an  unceasing  stream  his  complaints  against  the  cruelty 
of  fate  and  the  miseries  of  his  exile;  liis  supplications 
for  the  removal,  or  at  least  the  mitigation,  of  his  sen¬ 
tence;  and  his  entreaties  to  those  who  had  knowm  him 
in  his  prosperity,  that  they  would  help,  or,  if  help  was 
impossible,  would  at  least  remember  their  fallen  friend. 
It  must  be  confessed  that  they  lack  the  brilliancy  of  the 
earlier  poems.  The  genius  of  the  poet  stagnated,  as  he 
says  himself,  in  the  inclement  climate,  and  amidst  the 
barbarous  associations  of  his  place  of  exile.  And  the 
reader  is  wearied  by  the  garrulous  monotony  of  nearly 
six  thousand  verses,  in  which  the  absorbing  subject  of 
the  poet’s  own  sorrows  is  only  exchanged  for  flattery — 
all  the  more  repulsive,  because  we  know  it  to  have  been 
unavailing — of  the  ruler  from  whose  auger  or  policy  he 
was  suffering.  Yet  there  are  not  wanting  points  of  in¬ 
terest.  There  are  graphic  sketches  of  scenery  and  char¬ 
acter,  touches  of  pathos,  here  and  there  even  a  gleam  of 
humor,  and  sometimes,  when  the  occasion  brings  him 
to  speak  of  his  owTn  genius,  and  of  the  fame  to  which  he 
looked  forward,  an  assertion  of  independence  and  dig¬ 
nity,  which  is  infinitely  refreshing  amidst  his  unmanly 
repining  against  his  fate,  and  the  yet  more  unmanly 
adulations  by  which  he  hoped  to  escape  it. 

The  first  book  of  the  “Sorrows”  was  written  and 
despatched  to  Rome  before  Ovid  had  reached  his  allot¬ 
ted  place  of  banishment.  A  preface  commends  to  all 
who  still  remember  him  at  Rome  the  little  volume, 
which  would  remind  them  of  the  banished  Ovid.  It 
was  to  go  in  the  guise  that  became  an  exile’s  book.  It 
was  to  be  without  the  ornaments  which  distinguished 
more  fortunate  volumes.  A  characteristic  passage  tells 
us  what  these  ornaments  were,  and  gives  us  as  good  an 


104 


OVID. 


idea  as  we  can  anywhere  get  of  the  appearance  of  a 
Roman  book.  The  parchment  or  paper,  on  the  inner 
side  of  which  was  the  writing,  was  tinted  on  the  outer 
of  a  warm  and  pleasing  color,  by  means  of  saffron  or 
cedar-oil.  The  title  of  the  book  was  written  in  ver¬ 
milion  letters.  The  stick  round  which  the  roll  was 
made  had  bosses  of  ivory,  or  some  other  ornamental 
material,  and  the  ends  of  the  roll  wrere  polished  and 
colored  black.  Any  erasure  was  considered  to  be  a  great 
disfigurement:  of  such  disfigurement  the  poet’s  book 
was  not  to  be  ashamed.  Every  reader  would  under¬ 
stand  that  sufficient  cause  was  found  in  the  author’s 
tears.  From  the  same  preface  we  may  conjecture  that 
the  volume  was  not  actually  published,  but  was,  as  we 
should  say,  printed  for  private  circulation.  It  was  to 
go  to  the  poet’s  home,  and  find  its  resting-place,  not  in 
the  book-stalls  round  the  columns  of  the  temple  of 
Apollo,  but  on  the  shelves  of  the  writer’s  own  mansion. 
Nowhere,  indeed,  throughout  the  “  Sorrows”  does  Ovid 
venture  to  name  any  one  of  his  friends  to  whom  he  ad¬ 
dresses  the  various  poems  of  which  the  several  books 
are  composed.  His  wife  only  is  excepted.  If  any  peril 
had  ever  threatened  her,  it  had  now  passed.  Indeed, 
if  the  poet  is  to  be  believed,  she  desired  nothing  more 
than  that  she  should  be  allowed  to  share  her  husband’s 
exile.  But  it  was  evidently  a  perilous  thing  for  friends 
of  the  banished  man  to  be  supposed  to  keep  up  any  in¬ 
tercourse  with  him.  Time,  though  it  brought  no  re¬ 
laxation  to  the  severity  of  the  punishment,  seemed  to 
have  removed  something  of  the  bitterness  with  which 
the  poet’s  name  was  regarded  at  Rome.  The  ‘  ‘  Letters 
from  the  Pontus”  are  addressed  by  name  to  various 
friends,  and  we  find  from  them  that,  instead  of  the  two 
or  three  faithful  hearts  who  alone  were  left  to  the  fallen 


TEE  TBISTIA,  OE  TEE  “ SORROWS”  105 


man  in  the  early  days  of  his  ruin,  he  had  during  the 
latter  years  of  his  exile  a  goodly  number  of  correspond¬ 
ents. 

Of  the  second  poem  in  the  book,  describing  the  im¬ 
minent  peril  of  shipwreck  in  which  he  'found  himself 
on  his  voyage  from  Italy,  mention  has  already  been 
made.  He  returns  to  the  same  subject  in  the  fourth 
elegy,  mentioning,  not  without  a  certain  pathos,  that 
the  adverse  winds  had  driven  him  back  within  sight  of 
that  Italy  on  which  it  was  forbidden  him  again  to  set 
foot. 

The  fourth  poem,  describing  his  departure  from  his 
home,  has  been  already  given  at  length.  The  fifth 
makes  one  of  the  many  fruitless  appeals  for  help  which 
Ovid  continued  throughout  the  weary  years  of  his  ban¬ 
ishment  to  address  to  any  friend  whom  he  thought  suf¬ 
ficiently  bold  to  intercede  on  his  behalf  with  the  of¬ 
fended  Caesar.  An  elegy  addressed  to  his  wife — the 
first  of  many  poems  in  which  he  warmly  expresses  his 
gratitude  for  the  devotion  with  which  she  was  defending 
his  interests  against  enemies  and  faithless  friends;  an¬ 
other,  addressed  to  a  friend,  commending  to  his  notice 
the  book  of  the  Metamorphoses,  and  excusing,  on  the 
ground  of  the  sudden  interruption  caused  by  the  author’s 
banishment,  its  many  imperfections;  and  a  pathetic 
remonstrance  with  one  who  had  once  professed  a  great 
friendship  for  him,  but  had  deserted  him  in  his  hour  of 
need — these,  with  two  other  poems,  complete  the  first 
book  of  the  “  Sorrows.”  It  may  be  noticed,  as  a  proof 
of  the  popularity  which  the  poet  had  attained,  that  the 
friend  whom  Ovid  addresses  was  accustomed  to  wear 
in  a  ring  a  gem  engraved  with  Ovid’s  portrait.  Gems 
were  in  one  sense  what  miniatures  were  to  the  last  gen¬ 
eration,  and  what  photographs  are  to  ourselves;  but  both 


106 


OVID . 


the  material  and  the  process  of  engraving  were  costly, 
and  it  is  probable  that  it  was  only  persons  of  some  note 
who  enjoyed  the  distinction  of  having  their  features 
thus  perpetuated.  There  is  a  traditionary  likeness  of 
Ovid,  which  may  possibly  have  come  down  to  us  in 
this  way.  It  is  a  curious  fact  that,  thanks  to  this  art 
of  gem-engraving,  we  are  well  acquainted  with  the 
faces  of  men  separated  from  us  by  twenty  centuries 
and  more,  while  the  outward  semblance  of  those  who 
are  within  three  or  four  hundred  years  of  our  own  time 
has  been  irrecoverably  lost. 

The  second  book  of  the  “Sorrows”  is  an  elaborate 
Apologia  pro  vita  sua,  addressed  to  Augustus.  He 
hopes  that,  as  verse  had  been  his  ruin,  so  verse  might 
help  to  ameliorate  his  condition.  “The  emperor  him¬ 
self  had  acknowledged  its  power.  At  his  bidding  the 
Roman  matrons  had  chanted  the  song  of  praise  to 
Cybele ;  and  he  had  ordered  the  hymns  which  at  the 
Secular  Games  had  been  raised  to  Phoebus.*  Might  he 
not  hope  that  the  wrath  of  the  terrestrial  god  might  be 
propitiated  in  the  same  way?  To  pardon  was  the  pre¬ 
rogative  of  deity.  Jupiter  himself,  when  he  had  hurled 
his  thunders,  allowed  the  clear  sky  again  to  be  seen. 
And  who  had  been  more  merciful  than  Augustus?  Ovid 
had  seen  many  promoted  to  wealth  and  power,  who  had 
born  arms  against  him.  No  such  guilt  had  been  the 
poet’s.  He  had  never  forgotten  to  offer  his  prayers  for 
the  ruler  of  Rome,  had  never  failed  to  sing  his  praises. 
And  had  he  not  received  the  emperor’s  approval?  When 


*  The  Secular  Games  were  celebrated  once  in  a  century.  This, 
at  least,  was  the  theory ;  but  more  than  one  emperor  found  it 
convenient  to  shorten  the  period.  The  hymn  to  Phoebus  of 
which  Ovid  speaks  has  been  preserved  in  the  well-known  Secular 
Hymn  (Carman  Seeculare)  of  Horace. 


THE  TRISTlA,  OR  THE  “SORROWS."  10* 


the  knights  had  passed  in  review  before  him,  the  poet’s 
horse  had  been  duly  restored  to  him.*  Nay,  he  had 
filled  high  stations  of  responsibility,  had  been  a  member 
of  the  Court  of  the  Hundred,  and  even  of  the  Council 
of  Ten,  which  presided  over  it.  And  all  had  been 
ruined  by  an  unhappy  mistake  1  Yet  the  emperor  had 
been  merciful.  Life  had  been  spared  to  him,  and  his 
paternal  property.  No  decree  of  the  senate  or  of  any 
judge  had  condemned  him  to  banishment.  The  em¬ 
peror  had  avenged  his  own  wrongs  by  an  exercise  of 
his  own  power,  but  avenged  them  with  a  punishment 
so  much  milder  than  it  might  have  been,  as  to  leave 
him  hopes  for  the  future.”  These  hopes  he  proceeds 
to  commend  to  the  emperor  by  elaborate  flattery.  He 
appeals  successively  to  the  gods,  who,  if  they  loved 
Rome,  would  prolong  the  days  of  its  lord;  to  the 
country,  which  would  always  be  grateful  for  the 
blessings  of  his  rule;  to  Livia,  the  one  wife  who  was 
worthy  of  him,  and  for  whom  he  was  the  one  worthy 
husband;  to  the  triumphs  which  his  grandsons f  were 
winning  in  his  name  and  under  his  auspices;  and 
implores  that  if  return  may  not  be  granted  to  him,  at 
least  some  milder  exile  may  be  conceded.  Here  he 
was  on  the  very  verge  of  the  empire,  and  within  reach 
of  its  enemies.  Was  it  well  that  a  Roman  citizen 
should  be  in  peril  of  captivity  among  barbarous  tribes? 
Ovid  then  proceeds  to  set  forth  an  apology  for  his  of¬ 
fending  poems.  To  the  real  cause  of  his  banishment 
he  makes  one  brief  allusion.  More  he  dared  not  say. 
“I  am  not  worth  so  much  as  that  I  should  renew  your 


*  A  knight  disgraced  by  the  censor  (the  emperor  was  perpet¬ 
ual  censor)  had  his  horse  taken  from  him. 

t  Drusus,  the  son,  and  Germanicus,  the  nephew  and  adopted 
son,  of  Tiberius,  Augustus’s  stepson. 


108 


ovtn. 


wounds,  O  Caesar:  it  is  far  too  much  that  you  should 
once  have  felt  the  pang.”  That  in  this  error,  notin 
any  offending  poem,  lay  the  real  cause  of  his  fall,  Ovid 
was  doubtless  well  aware.  Hence  it  is  not  too  much  to 
suppose  that  the  apology  which  follows  was  intended 
rather  for  posterity  than  for  the  person  to  whom  it  is 
addressed.  It  is  needless  to  examine  it  in  detail.  The 
sum  and  substance  of  it  is,  that  the  poems  were  written 
for  those  to  whom  they  could  not  possibly  do  any  harm; 
that  readers  to  whose  modesty  they  might  be  likely  to 
do  an  injury  had  been  expressly  warned  off  from  them; 
that  a  mind  perversely  disposed  would  find  evil  any¬ 
where,  even  in  the  most  sacred  legends;  that,  if  every¬ 
thing  whence  the  opportunity  for  wrong  might  arise 
was  to  be  condemned,  the  theatre,  the  circus,  the  tern-’ 
pies  with  their  porticoes  so  convenient  for  forbidden 
meetings,  and  their  associations  so  strangely  tinged 
with  license,  would  share  the  same  fate.  As  for  him¬ 
self,  his  life  had  been  pure  but  for  this  one  fault;  and 
this  fault  how  many  had  committed  before  him !  Then 
follows  a  long  list  of  poets,  who,  if  to  sing  of  love  was 
an  offence,  had  been  grievous  offenders.  Then  there 
had  been  poems  on  dice-playing,  and  dice  had  been  a 
grievous  offence  in  the  old  days.  All  verses  that  taught 
men  how  to  waste  that  precious  thing  time, — verses 
about  swimming,  about  ball-playing,  about  the  truud- 
ling  of  hoops  (a  favorite  amusement,  it  would  seem, 
even  with  middle-aged  Romans),  about  the  furnishings 
of  the  table  and  its  etiquette,  about  the  different  kinds 
of  earthenware  (the  fancy  for  curious  pots  and  pans 
was,  it  will  be  seen,  in  full  force  among  the  wealthy 
Romans  of  Ovid’s  time), — might  be  condemned.  Plays, 
too,  and  pictures,  were  grievous  offenders  in  the  same 
way.  Why  should  Ovid  be  the  only  one  to  suffer? — 


THE  TRISTIA,  OR  THE  “SORROWS."  109 


Ovid,  too,  who  had  written  grave  and  serious  works 
which  no  one  could  censure,  and  who  had  never 
wronged  any  man  by  slanderous  verses,  over  whose  fail 
no  one  rejoiced,  but  many  had  mourned. 

“  Permit  these  pleas  thy  mighty  will  to  sway, 

Great  Lord,  thy  country’s  Father,  Hope,  and  Stay! 
Return  I  ask  not ;  though  at  last  thy  heart, 

Touched  by  long  suffering,  may  the  boon  impart; 

Let  not  the  penalty  the  fault  exceed: 

Exile  I  bear;  for  peace,  for  life  I  plead.” 

* 

It  is  probable  that  the  poem  was  despatched  to  Rome 
immediately  after  its  author  had  reached  Tomi.  He 
would  not  have  ventured  to  put  in  a  plea  for  the  miti¬ 
gation  of  punishment  before  he  had  at  least  begun  to 
suffer  it;  but  it  is  equally  certain  that  the  plea  would 
not  be  long  delayed.  The  third  book  of  the  “  Sorrows” 
was  likewise  composed  and  sent  off  during  the  first 
year  of  his  banishment.  The  twelfth  out  of  its  fourteen 
elegies  speaks  of  the  return  of  spring.  The  winter  of 
the  Pontus,  longer  than  any  that  he  had  known  before, 
had  passed  away;  lads  and  lasses  in  happier  lands  were 
gathering  violets;  the  swallow  was  building  under  the 
eaves;  vineyard  and  forest — strangers*  alas!  both  of 
them,  to  the  land  of  the^Ietae — were  bursting  into  leaf. 
And  in  Rome’s  happier  place,  which  he  might  never  see 
again,  all  the  athletic  sports  of  the  Campus,  all  the  gay 
spectacles  of  the  theatre,  were  being  enjoyed.  The 
poet’s  only  solace  was  that,  as  even  in  these  dismal  re¬ 
gions  spring  brought  some  relief,  and  opened  the  sea  to 
navigation,  some  ship  might  reach  the  shore  and  bring 
news  of  Italy  and  of  Caesar’s  triumphs.  The  next  elegy 
must  have  been  written  about  the  same  time.  Ovid’s 
birthday  (we  know  it  to  have  been  the  20th  of  March) 
came,  the  first  that  had  visited  him  in  his  exile. 


iio 


OVlB. 

“Would  that  thou  hadst  brought/’  he  says,  “not  an 
additional  but  an  end  to  my  painl  ” 

“  What  dost  thou  here?  Has  angry  Caesar  sent 
Thee  too  to  share  my  hopeless  banishment? 

Think’st  thou  to  find  the  customary  rite— 

To  see,  the  while  I  stand  in  festive  white, 

With  flowery  wreaths  the  smoking  altars  crowned, 

And  hear  in  spicy  flames  the  salt  meal’s  crackling  sound? 
Shall  honeyed  cakes  do  honor  to  the  day, 

While  I  in  words  of  happy  omen  pray? 

Not  such  my  lot.  A  cruel  fate  and  stern 
Forbids  me  thus  to  welcome  thy  return ; 

With  gloomy  cypress  be  my  altars  dight, 

And  flames  prepared  the  funeral  flames  to  light ! 

I  burn  no  incense  to  unheeding  skies,— 

From  heart  so  sad  no  words  of  blessing  rise; 

If  yet  for  me  one  fitting  prayer  remain, 

’Tis  this:  Return  not  to  these  shores  again!” 

Tlie  gloom  of  his  lot  was  aggravated  by  causes  of 
which  he  bitterly  complains  in  more  than  one  of  his 
poems.  In  the  third  elegy,  which  he  addressed  to  his 
wife,  she  must  not  wonder  that  the  letter  was  written 
in  a  strange  hand.  He  had  been  grievously,  even  dan¬ 
gerously,  ill.  The  climate  did  not  suit  him;  nor  the 
water  (Ovid  seems  to  have  been  a  water-drinker),  nor 
the  soil.  He  had  not  a  decent  house  to  cover  his  head; 
there  was  no  food  that  could  sui£  a  sick  man’s  appetite. 
No  physician  could  be  found  to  prescribe  for  his 
malady.  There  was  not  even  a  friend  who  could  while 
away  the  time  by  conversation  or  reading.  He  felt,  he 
complains  in  another  letter,  a  constant  lassitude,  which 
•extended  from  his  body  to  his  mind.  Perpetual  sleep¬ 
lessness  troubled  him;  his  food  gave  him  no  nourish¬ 
ment;  he  was  wasted  away  almost  to  a  skeleton.  Writ¬ 
ing  about  two  years  after  this  time,  he  assumes  a  more 
cheerful  tone.  His  health  was  restored.  He  had  be- 


/'  THE  TBISTIA,  OB  THE  "  SOBBOWS”  111 

f 


come  hardened  to  the  climate.  If  it  were  not  for  his 
mental  trouble,  all  would  be  well.  Another  pressing 
matter  was  anxiety  about  his  literary  reputation,  which 
the  offended  authorities  at  home  were  doing  their  best 
to  extinguish.  He  imagines  his  little  book  making  its 
way  with  trembling  steps  through  the  well-known 
scenes  of  the  capital.  It  goes  to  the  temple  of  Apollo, 
where  the  works  of  authors  old  and  new  were  open 
for  the  inspection  of  readers.  There  it  looks  for  its 
brothers, — not  the  luckless  poem  which  had  excited  the 
wrath  of  Caesar,  and  which  their  father  wished  he  had 
never  begotten,  but  the  unoffending  others.  Alas!  they 
were  all  absent;  and  even  while  it  looked,  the  guardian 
of  the  place  bade  it  begone.  Nor  was  it  more  success¬ 
ful  in  the  neighboring  library  of  the  temple  of  Liberty. 
Banished  from  public,  its  only  resource  was  to  find 
shelter  from  private  friendship.  To  such  shelter,  ac¬ 
cordingly,  the  volume  is  commended  in  the  last  elegy 
of  the  book.  This  friend  was,  it  seems,  a  patron  of 
literature, — “a  lover  of  new  poems,”  Ovid  calls  him. 
And  the  author  begs  his  favor  and  care  for  his  latest 
work.  Only  he  must  not  look  for  too  much.  Every¬ 
thing  was  against  him  in  that  barbarous  land.  The 
wonder  was  that  he  could  write  at  all.  “  There  is  no 
supply  of  books  here  to  rouse  and  nurture  my  mind; 
instead  of  hooks,  there  is  the  clash  of  swords  and 
the  bow.  There  is  no  one  in  the  country  to  give  me, 
should  I  read  to  him  my  verses,  an  intelligent  hearing. 
There  is  no  place  to  which  I  can  retire.  The  closely- 
guarded  falls  and  fast-shut  gate  keep  out  the  hostile 
Getae.  Often  I  look  for  a  word,  for  a  name,  for  a  place, 
and  there  is  no  one  to  help  me  to  it;  often  (I  am 
ashamed  to  confess  it)  when  I  try  to  say  something, 
words  fail  me  ;  I  find  that  I  have  forgotten  how  to 


112 


OVID, 


speak.  On  every  side  of  me  I  hear  the  sound  of  Thra¬ 
cian  and  Scythian  tongues.  I  almost  believe  that  I 
could  write  in  Getic  measures.  Nay,  believe  me,  I 
sometimes  fear  lest  Pontic  words  should  be  found 
mixed  with  my  Latin.”  We  have  the  same  complaints 
and  fears  repeated  in  the  fifth  book.  After  some  un¬ 
complimentary  expressions  about  the  savage  manners 
of  the  people,  and  their  equally  savage  dress  and  ap¬ 
pearance, — the  furs  and  loose  trousers  by  which  they 
sought,  but  with  ill  success,  to  keep  out  the  cold,  and 
their  long  and  shaggy  beards, — he  goes  on  to  speak 
about  the  language: 

“Among  a  few  remain  traces  of  the  Greek  tongue,  but  even 
these  corrupted  with  Getic  accent.  There  is  scarcely  a  man 
among  the  people  who  by  any  chance  can  give  you  an  answer  on 
any  matter  in  Latin.  I,  the  Roman  bard,  am  compelled— pardon 
me,  O  Muses!— to  speak  for  the  most  part  after  Sarmatian 
fashion.  I  am  ashamed  of  it,  and  I  own  it;  by  this  time,  from 
long  disuse,  I  myself  can  scarcely  recall  Latin  words.  And  I  do 
not  doubt  but  that  there  are  not  a  few  barbarisms  in  this  little 
book.  It  is  not  the  fault  of  the  writer,  but  of  the  place.” 

No  one  has  ever  discovered  any  “  Ponticisms”  in 
Ovid.  They  are  probably  as  imaginary  as  is  the  “Pad- 
uanism”  which  some  superfine  critics  of  antiquity  dis¬ 
covered  in  Livy.*  One  of  the  poet’s  apprehensions 
was,  however,  we  shall  find,  actually  fulfilled.  He  did 
“learn  to  write  in  Getic  measure,”  for  he  composed  a 
poem  in  the  language. 

One  of  the  elegies  in  the  third  book  has  been  already 
noticed.  It  is  addressed  to  Perilla,  and  the  question 
whether  this  lady  was,  as  some  commentators  suppcfee, 
the  daughter  of  the  poet,  has  been  briefly  discussed. 
The  name  is  certainly  not  real.  It  is  of  Greek  origin, 


*  Livy  was  a  native  of  Padua  (Patavium). 


THE  TBISTIA,  OB  THE  “SORROWS."  113 


and  it  has  been  already  seen  that  none  of  the  letters 
in  the  “Sorrows”  are  addressed  by  name  to  the  per¬ 
sons  for  whom  they  are  intended.  Besides  this,  we 
are  elsewhere  informed  that  Ovid’s  daughter  was 
married,  and  was  the  mother  of  two  children,  and 
that,  at  the  time  of  her  father’s  banishment,  she  was 
absent  in  Africa,  having  probably  accompanied  her  hus¬ 
band  to  some  post  in  that  province.  These  circum¬ 
stances  do  not  suit  the  poem-addressed  to  Perilla:  “  Go,, 
letter,  hastily  penned,  to  salute  Perilla,  the  faithful 
messenger  of  my  words;  you  will  find  her  either  sitting 
with  her  dear  mother,  or  among  her  books  and  Muses.” 
He  reminds  her  of  how  he  had  been  her  teacher  in  the  art 
of  verse,  and  tells  her  that  if  her  genius  remained  still 
as  vivid  as  of  old,  only  Sappho  would  excel  her.  Let 
her  not  be  terrified  by  his  own  sad  fate;  only  she  must 
beware  of  perilous  subjects.  Then  follows  a  noble  vin¬ 
dication  of  his  art,  and  of  the  dignity  which  it  gave  to 
him,  its  humble  follower: 


“  Long  years  will  mar  those  locks  so  comely  now, 

And  age  will  write  its  winkles  on  thy  brow. 

Mark  how  it  comes  with  fatal,  noiseless  pace, 

To  spoil  the  blooming  honors  of  thy  face ! 

Soon  men  will  say,  and  thou  wilt  hear  with  pain, 

*  Surely  she  once  was  lovely;’  and  in  vain, 

That  thy  too  faithful  glass  is  false,  complain. 

Small  are  thy  riches,  though  the  loftiest  state 
Would  suit  thee  well;  but  be  they  small  or  great, 
Chance  takes  and  brings  them  still  with  fickle  wing — 
To-day  a  beggar,  yesterday  a  king. 

Why  name  each  good?  Each  has  its  little  day; 

Gifts  of  the  soul  alone  defy  decay. 

I  live  of  friends,  of  country,  home,  bereft— 

All  I  could  lose,  but  genius  still  is  left; 

This  is  my  solace,  this  my  constant  friend; 

Ere  this  be  reached  e’en  Caesar’s  power  must  end.” 


114 


OVID. 


It  is  needless  to  go  on  in  detail  through  what  remains 
of  the  “  Sorrows.”  The  tenth  poem  of  the  fourth  book 
should  be  mentioned  as  being  a  brief  autobiography  of 
the  poet.  Its  substance  has  already  been  given.  Else¬ 
where  he  pursues,  with  an  iteration  which  would  be 
wearying  in  the  extreme  but  for  his  marvellous  power 
of  saying  the  same  thing  in  many  ways,  the  old  sub¬ 
jects.  The  hardships  of  his  lot,  the  fidelity^  or  faith¬ 
lessness  of  his  friends,  the  solace  which  his  art  supplied 
him,  and  the  effort  to  discover  someway  of  propitiating 
those  who  held  his  fate  in  their  hands — these  topics 
occupy  in  turn  his  pen.  The  following  elegant  trans¬ 
lation  by  the  late  Mr.  Philip  Stanhope  Worsley,  of  one 
of  the  latest  poems  of  the  book,  may  serve  as  a  good 
specimen  of  his  verse : 

“  ‘  Study  the  mournful  hours  away, 

Lest  in  dull  sloth  thy  spirit  pine 

Hard  words  thou  writest :  verse  is  gay, 

And  asks  a  lighter  heart  than  mine. 

No  calms  my  stormy  life  beguile, 

Than  mine  can  be  no  sadder  chance; 

You  bid  bereaved  Priam  smile, 

And  Niobe,  the  childless,  dance. 

Is  grief  or  study  more  my  part, 

Whose  life  is  doomed  to  wilds  like  these? 

Though  you  should  make  my  feeble  heart 
Strong  with  the  strength  of  Socrates, 

Such  ruin  would  crush  wisdom  down ; 

Stronger  than  man  is  wrath  divine. 

That  sage,  whom  Phoebus  gave  the  crown, 

Never  could  write  in  grief  like  mine. 

Can  I  my  land  and  thee  forget. 

Nor  the  felt  sorrow  wound  my  breast? 

Say  that  I  can— but  foes  beset 
This  place,  and  rob  me  of  all  rest. 


Tlifi  TiiisTiA,  or  rnti  “sorrows.*1  ns 


Add  that  my  mind  hath  rusted  now, 

And  fallen  far  from  what  it  was. 

The  land,  though  rich,  that  lacks  the  plough 
Is  barren,  save  of  thorns  and  grass. 

The  horse,  that  long  hath  idle  stood, 

Is  soon  o’ertaken  in  the  race; 

And  torn  from  its  familiar  flood, 

The  chinky  pinnace  rots  apace. 

Nor  hope  that  I,  before  but  mean, 

Can  to  my  former  self  return ;  * 

Long  sense  of  ills  hath  bruised  my  brain, 

Half  the  old  fires  no  longer  burn. 

Yet  oft  I  take  the  pen  and  try, 

As  now,  to  build  the  measured  rhyme. 

Words  come  not,  or,  as  meet  thine  eye, 

Words  worthy  of  their  place  and  time. 

Last,  glory  cheers  the  heart  that  fails, 

And  love  of  praise  inspires  the  mind — 

I  followed  once  Fame’s  star,  my  sails 
Filled  with  a  favorable  wind: 

But  now  ’tis  not  so  well  with  me, 

To  care  if  fame  be  lost  or  won: 

Nay,  but  I  would,  if  that  might  be, 

Live  all  unknown  beneath  the  sun.” 

It  remains  only  to  fix  tlie  date  of  the  “  Sorrows.”  Its 
earliest  poems  were  penned  during  the  voyage  from 
Borne.  The  latest  belongs  to  the  earlier  part  of  the  third 
year  of  his  exile.  “  Thrice,  since  I  came  to  Pontus,  has 
the  Danube  been  stopped  by  frost,  thrice  the  wave  of 
the  sea  been  hardened  within.”  It  is  probable  that  Ovid 
reached  Tomi  somewhere  about  the  month  of  Septem¬ 
ber,  a.d.  9.  The  “  third  winter”  of  his  banishment, 
therefore,  would  be  drawing  to  a  close  in  March,  a.d. 
12,  when  he  was  about  to  complete  his  fifty-fourth  year. 


ovm 


116 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

THE  POEMS  OF  EXILE :  THE  LETTERS  FROM  THE  PONTtJS 

— DEATH  OF  OVID. 

The  “Letters”  number  forty-four  in  all,  and  are  con¬ 
tained  in  four  books.  They  are  arranged  in  chronolog¬ 
ical  order — an  order,  however,  which  is  not  absolutely 
exact.  The  earliest  of  them  dates  from  the  same  year 
to  which  the  fifth  book  of  the  “Sorrows”  is  to  be  at¬ 
tributed.  In  the  prefatory  epistle,  addressed  to  Brutus 
— a  relative,  it  is  probable,  of  the  famous  tyrannicide — 
the  poet  tells  his  friend  that  he  will  find  the  new  book 
as  full  of  sorrows  as  its  predecessor.  It  contains,  how¬ 
ever,  not  a  few  indications  that  his  position  had  been 
somewhat  changed— and  changed  for  the  better.  He 
had  not  ventured  to  prefix  to  the  various  poems  of  which 
the  “  Sorrows”  were  made  up  the  names  of  those  to 
whom  they  were  addressed.  This  he  does  not  now 
scruple  to  do;  and  we  find  accordingly  that,  instead  of 
the  two  or  three  who,  he  complains  in  the  earlier  book, 
had  alone  been  left  to  him  out  of  the  crowd  of  com¬ 
panions,  there  was  no  inconsiderable  number  of  friends 
who  were  willing  to  remember,  and  even,  if  it  might 
be,  to  help  him.  We  may  count  as  many  as  twenty 
names;  not  reckoning  Germanicus  Csesar,  to  whom  Ovid 
addresses  a  complimentary  letter,  and  Cotys,  a  tributary 
kiug,  the  boundaries  of  whose  dominions  were  not  far 
from  Tomi.  While  the  revival  of  these  old  friendships 
consoled  the  poet,  and  even  buoyed  him  up  with  hopes 
that  his  banishment  might  be  terminated,  or  at  least 
mitigated,  by  a  change  of  scene,  the  place  itself  was  be¬ 
coming  (though,  indeed,  he  is  scarcely  willing  to  allow 


Letters  from  the  poxtus. 


lit 

it)  less  odious  to  him:  its  semi-barbarous  inhabitants 
were  not  insensible  to  the  honor  of  having  so  distin¬ 
guished  a  resident  among  them;  and  his  own  behavior, 
as  he  tells  one  of  his  correspondents,  had  made  a  favor¬ 
able  impression  on  them.  “  They  would  rather  that  I 
left  them,”  he  says,  “  because  they  see  that  I  wish  to  do 
so;  but  as  far  as  regards  themselves,  they  like  me  to  be 
here.  Do  not  take  all  this  on  my  word;  you  may  see 
the  decrees  of  the  town,  which  speak  in  my  praise,  and 
make  me  free  of  all  taxes.  Such  honors  are  scarcely 
suitable  to  a  miserable  fugitive  like  myself;  but  the 
neighboring  towns  have  bestowed  on  me  the  same  priv¬ 
ilege.”  The  sympathizing  people  might  well  complain 
that  their  kindness  was  repaid  with  ingratitude,  when 
their  fellow-townsman  continued  to  speak  with  unmiti¬ 
gated  abhorrence  of  the  place  to  which  he  had  been  con¬ 
demned.  “  I  care  for  nothing,”  he  says,  still  harping  on 
the  constant  theme  of  his  verse,  to  one  of  his  distant 
friends,  ‘  *  but  to  get  out  of  this  place.  Even  the  Styx — if 
there  is  a  Styx — would  be  a  good  exchange  for  the  Dan¬ 
ube;  yes,  and  anything,  if  such  the  world  contain,  that  is 
below  the  Styx  itself.  The  plough-land  less  hates  the 
weed,  the  swallow  less  hates  the  frost,  than  Naso  hates 
the  regions  wiiich  border  on  the  war-loving  Getae.  Such 
words  as  these  make  the  people  of  Tomi  wroth  with 
me.  The  public  anger  is  stirred  up  by  my  verse.  Shall 
I  never  cease  to  be  injured  by  my  song?  Shall  I 
always  suffer  from  my  imprudent  genius.  Why  do 
I  hesitate  to  lop  off  my  fingers,  and  so  make  writing 
impossible?  why  do  I  take  again,  in  my  folly,  to  the 
warfare  which  has  damaged  me  before?  Yet  I  have 
done  no  wrong.  It  is  no  fault  of  mine,  men  of  Tomi; 
you  I  love,  though  I  cordially  hate  your  country.  Let 
any  one  search  the  record  of  my  toils — there  is  no 


r 


m 


OVID. 


letter  in  complaint  of  you.  It  is  the  cold — it  is  the 
attack  that  we  have  to  dread  on  all  sides — it  is  the 
assaults  that  the  enemy  make  on  our  walls,  that  I  com¬ 
plain  of.  It  was  against  the  place,  not  against  the  people, 
that  I  made  the  charge.  You  yourselves  often  blame 
your  own  country.  ...  It  is  a  malicious  interpreter 
that  stirs  up  the  anger  of  the  people  against  me,  and 
brings  a  new  charge  against  my  verse.  I  wish  that  I 
was  as  fortunate  as  I  am  honest  in  heart.  There  does 
not  live  a  man  whom  my  words  have  wronged.  Nay, 
were  I  blacker  than  Illyrian  pitch,  I  could  not  wrong  so 
loyal  a  people  as  you.  The  kindness  with  which  you 
have  received  me  in  my  troubles  shows,  men  of  Tomi, 
that  a  people  so  gentle  must  be  genuine  Greeks.*  My 
own  people,  the  Peligni,  and  Sulmo,  the  land  of  my 
home,  could  not  have  behaved  more  kindly  in  my 
troubles.  Honors  which  you  would  scarcely  give  to  the 
prosperous  and  unharmed,  you  have  lately  bestowed 
upon  me.  I  am  the  only  inhabitant — one  only  expected, 
who  held  the  privilege  of  legal  right — that  has  been 
exempted  from  public  burdens.  My  temples  have  been 
crowned  with  the  sacred  chaplet,  lately  voted  to  me, 
against  my  will,  by  the  favor  of  the  people.  Dear,  then, 
as  to  Latona  was  that  Delian  land,  the  only  spot  which 
gave  a  safe  refuge  to  the  wanderer,  so  dear  is  Tomi  to 
me — Tomi  which  down  to  this  day  remains  a  faithful 
host  to  one  who  has  been  banished  from  his  native  land ! 
If  only  the  gods  had  granted  that  it  might  have  some 
hope  of  peace  and  quiet,  and  that  it  were  a  little  further 
removed  from  the  frosts  of  the  pole!” 

The  poet,  though  he  could  not  restrain  or  moderate 


*  This  was  a  compliment  which  would  be  certain  to  please  a 
half-bred  population  like  that  of  the  old  colony. 


LETTERS  FROM  TEE  FOETUS. 


110' 

his  complaints  about  the  miseries  of  ms  exile,  did  his 
best  to  make  a  return  for  these  honors  and  hospitalities. 
“I  am  ashamed  to  say  it,”  he  writes  to  Cams,  a  scholar 
of  distinction,  who  had  been  appointed  tutor  to  the 
children  of  Germanicus,  “but  I  have  written  a  book  in 
the  language  of  the  Getse;  I  have  arranged  their  barbar¬ 
ous  words  in  Roman  measures.  I  was  happy  enough 
to  please  (congratulate  me  on  the  success);  nay,  I  begin 
to  have  the  reputation  of  a  poet  among  these  uncivilized 
Getse.  Do  you  ask  me  my  subject?  I  sang  the  praises 
of  Caesar.  I  was  assisted  in  my  novel  attempt  by  the 
power  of  the  god.  I  told  them  how  that  the  body  of 
Father  Augustus  was  mortal,  while  his  divinity  had  de¬ 
parted  to  the  dwellings  of  heaven.  I  told  them  how 
there  was  one  equal  in  virtue  to  his  father,  who  under 
compulsion,  had  assumed  the  reigns  of  an  empire  which 
he  had  often  refused.*  I  told  them  that  thou,  Livia, 
art  the  Vesta  of  modest  matrons,  of  whom  it  cannot  be 
determined  whether  thou  art  more  worthy  of  thy  hus¬ 
band  or  thy  son.  I  told  them  that  there  were  two 


*  Tacitus  describes  with  scorn  the  assumed  reluctance  of 
Tiberius  openly  to  accept  the  power  which  he  really  possessed, 
and  which  he  had  no  intention  of  abandoning,  or  even  in  the 
least  degree  diminishing.  Any  attempt  to  take  him  at  his  word 
was  at  once  fiercely  resented.  He  had  said,  for  instance,  that 
though  not  equal  to  the  whole  burden  of  the  state,  he  would 
undertake  the  charge  of  whatever  part  might  be  intrusted  to 
him;  and  one  of  the  senators  committed  the  indiscretion  of  say¬ 
ing,  “  I  ask  you,  Caesar,  what  part  of  the  state  you  wish  intrusted 
to  you?”  This  embarrassing  question  was  never  forgotten  or 
forgiven,  and  was  ultimately,  if  we  may  believe  the  historian, 
punished  with  death.  Tiberius’s  final  acquiescence  Is  thus  des¬ 
cribed  :  “  Wearied  at  last  by  the  assembly’s  clamorous  impor¬ 
tunity  and  the  urgent  demands  of  individual  senators,  he  gave 
way  by  degrees,  not  admitting  that  he  undertook  empire,  but  yet 
ceasing  to  refuse  it  and  to  be  entreated.” 


120 


OVID. 


youths,  firm  supporters  of  their  father,  who  have  given 
some  pledges  of  their  spirit.  When  I  had  read  this  to 
the  end,  written  as  it  was  in  the  verse  of  another  tongue, 
and  the  last  page  had  been  turned  by  my  fingers,  all 
nodded  their  heads,  all  shook  their  full  quivers,  and  a 
prolonged  murmur  of  applause  came  from  the  Getic 
crowd;  and  some  cried,  ‘Since  you  write  such  things 
about  Caesar,  you  should  have  been  restored  to  Caesar’s 
empire.’  So  he  spake;  but,  alas,  my  Cams!  the  sixth 
winter  sees  me  still  an  exile  beneath  the  snowy  sky.” 
It  is  to  this  subject  of  his  exile  that  in  the  “  Letters,” 
as  in  the  “Sorrows,”  he  returns  with  a  mournful  and 
wearisome  iteration.  The  greater  number  of  them 
belonged  to  the  fifty-fifth  and  fifty-sixth  years  of  the 
poet’s  life.  The  fifth  of  the  last  book,  for  instance,  is 
addressed  to  “Sextus  Pompeius,  now  Consul.”  Pom- 
peius,  who  was  collaterally  related  to  the  great  rival  of 
Caesar,  entered  on  his  consulship  on  January  1st,  a.d. 
14.  “Go,  trivial  elegy,  to  our  consul’s  learned  ears! 
take  words  for  that  honored  man  to  read.  The  way 
is  long,  and  you  go  with  halting  feet.* *  And  the  earth 
lies  hidden,  covered  with  snows  of  winter.  When  ydu 
shall  have  crossed  frosty  Thrace,  and  Hsemus  covered 
with  clouds,  and  the  waters  of  the  Ionian  Sea,  you  will 
come  to  the  imperial  city  in  less  than  ten  days,  even 
though  you  do  not  hasten  your  journey.”  f  The  letter 

*■  ' 

*  This  is  a  favorite  witticism  with  Ovid.  The  elegiac  couplet 
was  made  up  of  two  feet  of  unequal  length— the  hexameter  or 
six-foot,  and  the  pentameter  or  five-foot  verse.  Hence  it  was 
said  to  halt. 

t  This  means  that  the  letter  would  be  somewhat  less  than  ten 
days  in  travelling  fi’om  Brundusium  (the  port  of  departure  and 
arrival  for  travellers  to  or  from  the  East)  to  Rome.  The  distance 
may  be  roughly  stated  at  about  300  miles.  Cicero  gives  us  to 
understand  on  one  occasion  that  a  letter  addressed  to  him  had 


LETTERS  FROM  THE  PONTES.  i2i 

marks  the  time  at  which  Ovid’s  hopes  of  pardon  had 
risen  to  their  highest.  Powerful  friends  had  interceded 
for  him;  with  one  of  them  advanced  to  the  consulship — 
a  token  of  high  favor,  though  nothing  but  a  shadow  of 
power — he  might  hope  for  the  best.  And  it  is  probable, 
as  has  been  before  explained,  that  Augustus  was  at  this 
very  time  meditating  nothing  less  than  another  dispo¬ 
sition  of  the  imperial  power, — a  disposition  which  would 
have  reinstated  in  their  position  his  own  direct  descend¬ 
ants,  and  with  them  have  restored  the  fortunes  of  Ovid. 
These  hopes  were  to  be  disappointed.  On  the  29th  of 
August  in  the  same  year,  Augustus  died  at  Nola,  in 
Campania.  There  were  some  who  declared  that  his  end 
was  at  least  hastened  by  Li  via,  deterter  mined  to  secure 
at  any  price  the  prospects  of  her  son  Tiberius.  As  the 
emperor  had  completed  liis  seventy-sixth  year,  it  is  un¬ 
necessary  thus  to  account  for  a  death  which,  though  it 
may  have  been  opportune,  was  certainly  to  be  expected. 
On  Ovid’s  fortunes  the  effect  was  disastrous.  The  very 
next  letter  is  that  which  has  been  already  quoted  as 
deploring  the  death  of  Augustus  at  the  very  time  when 
he  was  beginning  to  entertain  milder  thoughts,  and  the 
ruin  which  had  overtaken  his  old  friend  and  patron, 
Fabius  Maximus.  Ovid,  however,  did  not  yet  abandon 
all  hope.  To  address  directly  Tiberius  or  Livia  seemed 
useless.  His  thoughts  turned  to  the  young  Germanicus, 
Tiberius’s  nephew,  whose  wife  was  Agrippina,  daughter 
of  the  elder  and  sister  of  the  younger  Julia.  Among 
the  friends  of  this  prince,  who  was  then  in  command 
of  the  armies  of  the  Rhine — and,  though  an  object  of 


travelled  the  same  distance  in  seven  days.  Horace  occupied 
about  double  the  time  in  the  leisurely  journey  which  he  describes 
himself  as  making  (Sat.  i.  5)  in  company  with  Maecenas,  Virgil, 
and  other  friends. 


122 


OVID. 


Suspicion  to  liis  uncle  and  adopting  father,  high  in 
popular  favor — was  P.  Suillius  Rufus.  Suillius  was 
closely  connected  with  Ovid,  whose  step-daughter  (the 
daughter  of  his  third  wife)  he  had  married.  He  must 
then  have  been  a  young  man,  as  it  is  more  that  forty 
years  afterwards  that  we  hear  of  his  being  banished  by 
Nero;  and  he  filled  the  part  of  quaestor  (an  office  of  a 
financial  kind)  on  the  staff  of  Germanicus.  “If  you 
shall  feel  a  hope,”  he  writes,  “that  anything  can  be 
done  by  prayer,  entreat  with  suppliant  voice  the  gods 
whom  you  worship.  Thy  gods  are  the  youthful  Caesar; 
make  propitious  these  thy  deities.  Surely  no  altar  is 
more  familiar  to  you  than  this.  That  does  not  allow 
the  prayers  of  any  of  its  ministers  to  be  in  vain ;  from 
hence  seek  thou  help  for  my  fortunes.  If  it  should 
help,  with  however  small  a  breeze,  my  sinking  boat 
will  rise  again  from  the  midst  of  the  waters.  Thou 
wilt  bring  due  increase  to  the  devouring  flames,  and 
testify  how  strong  the  gods  can  be.”  The  writer  then 
addresses,  and  continues  to  address  throughout  the  rest 
of  the  letter,  Germanicus  himself,  for  whose  eye  it 
was  of  course  intended,  and  before  whom  Suillius  is 
entreated  in  the  concluding  couplet  by  his  almost 
father-in-law,”  as  Ovid  quaintly  calls  himself,  to  bring 
it.  Another  friend,  whose  intercession  in  the  same 
quarter  the  poet  entreats,  is  Carus — tutor,  as  has  been 
said  before,  to  the  sons  of  Germanicus.  This  letter 
was  written  in  “the  sixth  winter  of  exile” — i.e.,  about 
the  end  of  a.d.  14  or  the  beginning  of  15 — the  time 
to  which  we  are  to  ascribe  the  poem  in  the  Getic 
language,  on  the  death  and  deification  of  Augustus 
Shortly  afterwards  must  have  been  written  a  letter 
addressed  to  Graecinus,  who  filled  the  office  of  consul 
during  the  second  half  of  the  latter  year.  Here  yfa 


LETTERS  FROM  TEE  PONTUS. 


123 


see  the  most  humiliating  phase  of  Ovid’s  servility.  It 
is  difficult  to  understand  how  little  more  than  fifty 
years  after  the  republic  had  ceased  to  exist,  an  Italian 
of  the  Italians,  one  of  that  hardy  Samnite  race  which 
had  so  long  contended  on  equal  terms  with  Rome  itself, 
could  be  found  descending  to  such  depths  ef  degrada- 
dation.  The  servile  multitudes  of  Egypt  and  Assyria 
had  never  prostrated  themselves  more  ignobly  before 
Sesostris  or  Nimrod  than  did  this  free-born  citizen  be¬ 
fore  the  men  who  were  so  relentlessly  persecuting  him. 
He  tells  his  powerful  friend  that  his  piety  was  known 
to  the  whole  country.  “This  stranger  land  sees  that 
there  is  in  my  dwelling  a  chapel  to  Csesar.  There 
stand  along  with  him,  his  pious  son  and  his  priestess 
spouse,  powers  not  inferior  to  the  already  perfected  deity. 
And  that  no  part  of  the  family  should  be  wanting,  there 
stand  both  his  grandsons,  the  one  close  to  his  grand¬ 
mother’s,  and  the  other  to  his  father’s  side.  To  these  I 
address  words  of  prayer  with  an  offering  of  incense  as 
often  as  the  day  arises  from  the  eastern  sky.”*  Two 
years  before,  we  find  him  thanking  his  friend  Maximus 
Cotta  for  a  present  of  the  statues  which  this  chapel  en¬ 
shrined.  He  mentions  three  as  the  number  which  had 
been  sent.  (The  images  of  the  two  young  princes  had 
since  been  added.)  In  this  letter  he  seems  to  lose  him¬ 
self  in  transports  of  gratitude.  “He  is  no  longer  an 
exile  at  the  ends  of  the  earth.  He  is  a  prosperous 
dweller  in  the  midst  of  the  capital.  He  sees  the  faces 


*  It  may  be  as  well  to  explain  that  by  Csesar  is  meant  Augustus 
(who  was  now  dead),  and  by  the  “  pious  son”  Tiberius.  Livia,  as 
the  widow  of  the  deified  prince,  was  the  priestess  of  his  worship; 
the  two  grandsons  are  Drusus,  son  of  Tiberius,  who  stands  by 
his  grandmother  Livia— and  Germanicus,  who  stands  by  fii§ 
^opting  father  Tiberius-. 


124 


OVID, 


of  tlie  Caesars.  Such  happiness  he  had  never  ventured 
to  hope  for.”  And  so  he  treads  the  well-worn  round  of 
customary  adulation.  A  short  specimen  will  be  enough 
to  show  to  what  depths  he  could  descend.  “  Happy 
they  who  look  not  on  the  likenesses  but  on  the  reality; 
who  see  before  their  eyes  the  very  bodies  of  the  god ! 
Since  a  hard  fate  has  denied  me  this  privilege,  I  wor¬ 
ship  those  whom  art  has  granted  to  my  prayer — the  like¬ 
ness  of  the  true.  ‘  Tis  thus  men  know  the  gods,  whom 
the  heights  of  heaven  conceal;  ’  tis  thus  that  the  shape 
of  Jupiter  is  worshipped  for  Jupiter  himself.”  And  then, 
anxious  not  to  ‘forget  the  practical  object  to  which  all 
these  elaborate  flatteries  were,  directed,  he  goes  on: 
“  Take  care  that  this  semblance  of  yours  which  is  with 
me,  and  shall  ever  be  with  me,  be  not  found  in  a  hostile 
spot.  My  head  shall  sooner  part  from  the  neck,  the  eye 
shall  sooner  leave  the  mangled  cheeks,  than  I  should 
bear  your  loss,  O  Deities  of  the  Commonwealth!  you 
shall  be  the  harbor  and  the  sanctuary  of  my  banishment. 
You  I  will  embrace,  if  I  be  surrounded  by  Getic  arms. 
You,  as  my  eagles  and  my  standards,  I  will  follow.  If 
I  am  not  deceived  and  cheated  by  too  powerful  a  desire, 
the  hope  of  a  happier  place  of  exile  is  at  hand.  The 
look  upon  your  likeness  is  less  and  less  gloomy;  the 
face  seems  to  give  assent  to  my  prayer.  I  pray  that  the 
presages  of  my  anxious  heart  may  be  true,  and  that  the 
anger  of  my  god,,  however  just  it  is,  may  yet  be  miti¬ 
gated.”  It  is  difficult  to  conceive  a  more  pitiable  sight 
than  that  of  the  wretched  exile  day  after  day  going 
through,  with  sinking  hopes  and  failing  spirits,  this 
miserable  pretence  of  worship;  prostrating  himself  be¬ 
fore  men  whose  baseness  and  profligacy  no  one  knew 
better  than  himself,  and,  while  he  crushed  down  the 
gvirses  that  rpse  naturally  to  his  }ips?  reiterating  the 


LETTERS  FROM  THE  PONTUS. 


125 


lying  prayer,  for  which  he  must  have  now  despaired  of 
an  answer.  That  he  should  have  performed  this  elab¬ 
orate  hypocrisy,  not  in  public  but  in  the  privacy  of  his 
own  home,  merely  for  the  sake  of  being  able  to  say  that 
he  had  done  it,  and  with  but  the  very  dimmest  hope  of 
getting  any  good  from  it,  is  inexpressibly  pitiable;  and 
that  it  should  be  possible  for  a  man  of  genius  to  stoop 
to  such  degradation,  and  for  great  princes,  as  Augustus 
and  Tiberius  certainly  were  to  be  swayed  in  their  pur¬ 
poses  by  such  an  exhibition — and  that  they  might  be 
swayed  by  it  Ovid  certainly  believed — is  a  warning 
against  the  evils  of  despotic  power  such  as  it  would  not 
be  easy  to  match. 

One  or  two  letters  may  be  briefly  noticed.  One  ad¬ 
dressed  to  Tuticanus,  a  brother  poet,  who  had  been  dis¬ 
tinguished  by  a  translation  of  the  Odyssey,  relieves  the 
gloomy  monotony  of  complaint  and  entreaty  by  a  faint 
spark  of  humor.  Whether  Tuticanus  had  hinted  an¬ 
noyance  at  not  having  received  any  of  the  poetical  epis¬ 
tles  with  which  other  friends  had  been  honored,  or 
whether,  as  is  more  probable,  there  was  a  hope  that 
some  help  might  be  got  from  him,  Ovid  apologizes  for 
not  having  written  before.  The  humor  of  his  excuse  is 
not  very  brilliant;  and  it  is  not  easy  to  explain  it  with¬ 
out  a  reference  to  the  principles  of  Latin  versification, 
which  would  be  here  out  of  place.  Tuticanus,  in  fact, 
was  a  name  which  “might  be  said,  but  never  could  be 
sung.”  “There  is  no  one,”  says  the  poet,  “whom  I 
should  have  more  delighted  to  honor — if,  indeed,  there 
is  any  honor  to  be  found  in  my  poetry.  But  your  name 
will  not  come  into  my  verse.  I  am  ashamed  to  split  it 
into  two,  and  put  “Tuti”  in  one  line  and  “canus”  in 
the  next.  Nor  while  it  is  properly  pronounced  Ttitfca- 
nps,  can  I  prevail  upon  myself  to  shorten  the  third  syh 


126 


OVID. 


lable  and  call  you  Tatfc&nus,  or  to  shorten  the  first  and 
call  you  TutfcSnus,  or  make  all  three  long  and  change 
it  into  Tutlcanus.”  It  has  been  said  that  the  ancients, 
and  especially  the  Romans,  were  easily  amused,  and 
Ovid’s  friend  was  apparently  no  exception  to  the  rule. 

Another  letter  introduces  us  to  a  personage  of  whom 
we  would  gladly  know  more,  Cotys,  one  of  the  tribu¬ 
tary  kings  of  Thrace.  Cotys  was  a  name  of  considera¬ 
ble  antiquity  in  this  region.  Among  those  who  had 
borne  it  was  a  prince  who  had  played  a  part  in  the 
struggle  between  Philip  of  Macedon  and  Athens.  Atli- 
enaeus  tells  a  strange  story  of  his  insane  extravagance 
and  cruelty,  indicating  the  barbarian  nature  thinly 
veneered  with  Greek  civilization,  or  rather  luxury.  The 
Cotys  to  whom  Ovid  writes  was,  if  the  poet  is  to  be  be¬ 
lieved,  of  a  different  temper.  Claiming  descent  from 
Eumolpus,  a  Thracian  bard,  who  figures  in  the  early 
legends  of  Attica,  his  tastes  were  such  as  became  his 
genealogy.  He  wrote  verse,  probably  in  the  Greek  lan¬ 
guage;  and  Ovid  declares  that,  had  they  not  had  the 
name  of  their  author  prefixed  to  them,  he  could  not 
have  supposed  them  to  have  been  written  by  a  native  of 
Thrace.  Orpheus,  adds  the  practiced  flatterer,  was  not 
the  only  poet  whom  that  region  had  produced.  It  had 
now  good  reason  to  be  proud  of  the  genius  of  its  king. 
It  is  a  curious  circumstance  that  a  semi-barbarous 
prince — for  such  Cotys  must  have  seemed  to  any  Roman 
who  had  no  special  reason  for  complimenting  him — 
should  have  been  the  occasion  of  the  famous  lines  which 
have  become  the  standing  apology  for  a  liberal  educa¬ 
tion:  “  Diligently  to  acquire  a  liberal  education,  softens 
men’s  manners,  and  forbids  them  to  grow  rude.”* 


*  “Ingenuas  didicisse  fideliter  artes 
gnjojlit  mores  nec  sinit  esse  ferps,” 


LETTERS  FROM  TEE  PONTES.  127 


From  -what  we  hear  of  Cotys  elsewhere,  we  find  that 
his  culture  was  not  exactly  in  the  right  place  among  the 
savage  tribes  of  Thrace.  Augustus  divided  between 
him  and  his  brother  Rhescuporis  the  kingdom  which 
had  belonged  to  his  father  Rhoemetalces.  “  In  this  di¬ 
vision,”  continues  Tacitus,  to  whom  we  are  indebted 
for  the  facts,  “the  cultivated  lands,  the  towns,  and 
what  bordered  on  Greek  territory,  fell  to  Cotys;  the 
wild  and  barbarous  portion,  with  enemies  on  its  fron¬ 
tier,  to  Rhescuporis.  The  kings,  too,  themselves  dif¬ 
fered — Cotys  having  a  gentle  and  kindly  temper,  the 
other  a  fierce  and  ambitious  spirit,  which  could  not 
brook  a  partner.”  Open  hostilities,  provoked  by  Rhes¬ 
cuporis,  broke  out.  The  temporizing  policy  of  Tibe¬ 
rius,  who  had  by  that  time  succeeded  to  the  throne,  pre¬ 
vented  him  from  rendering  due  assistance  to  Cotys,  who 
in  the  end,  was  treacherously  seized  by  his  brother,  and 
put  to  death. 

Of  the  literary  merits  of  the  “Letters  from  the 
Pontus”  there  is  little  to  be  said.  The  monotony  of 
its  subject  was  fatal  to  excellence.  Ovid  knew,  at 
least  as  well  as  any  man  who  ever  wrote,  how  to  say 
the  same  thing  over  and  over  again  in  different  ways; 
but  even  his  genius  could  not  indefinitely  vary  his 
constant  complaint  that  he  was  living  among  savages, 
and  under  an  inhospitable  sky;  his  constant  prayer 
that  he  might  be  released  from  his  gloomy  prison,  or, 
at  least,  transferred  to  a  more  genial  spot.  Isor  does 
he  vary  his  subject  with  the  episodical  narratives  in 
the  telling  of  which  he  so  much  excelled.  The  story 
of  Orestes  and  Pylades  is  the  only  specimen  of  the 
kind  that  occurs  in  the  four  books.  Ovid  puts  it 
into  the  mouth  of  an  old  native  of  the  country,  who 
speaks  of  having  himself  seen  the  temple  where  the 


148 


o  via. 


incident  happened,  towering  high  with  its  vast 
columns,  and  approached  by  an  ascent  of  twelve 
steps.*  The  versification  is  somewhat  languid,  and 
occasionally  careless.  The  poems  are  not  exactly  un¬ 
worthy  of  their  author,  for  they  are  probably  as  good 
as  the  subject  admitted.  To  a  Latin  scholar,  Ovid’s 
verse,  even  when  his  subject  is  uninteresting,  is  al¬ 
ways  pleasing;  an  English  reader  would  certainly  find 
them  exceedingly  tedious. 

The  “  Ibis”  is  a  poem  of  between  six  and  seven  hun¬ 
dred  lines  in  length,  containing  almost  as  many  impre¬ 
cations,  displaying  in  their  variety  an  amazing  fertility 
of  imagination,  which  are  directed  against  a  personal 
enemy  who  had  spoken  ill  of  the  poet  in  his  banish¬ 
ment,  had  persecuted  his  wife  with  his  attentions,  and 
had  endeavored  to  snatch  some  plunder  from  his  prop¬ 
erty.  It  is  modelled,  as  Ovid  himself  states,  on  a  poem 
of  the  same  name  which  Callimachus  wrote  against  a 
poet  who  had  been  his  pupil,  and  afterwards  became  a 
rival — Apollonius  Rhodius.  Callimachus’s  quarrel  with 
his  brother  poet  seems  to  have  been  a  purely  literary 
one.  Apollonius  preferred  the  simplicity  of  the  epic 

•writers  to  the  artificial  stvle  of  his  master.  The  cen- 

%> 

sure  was  bitterly  felt,  and  resented  with  a  vehemence 
which  transcends  anything  that  has  been  recorded  in 
the  history  of  letters.  The  person  whom  Ovid  attacked 

*  The  story  is  so  well  known  that  a  very  few  words  may  suffice 
for  it.  Orestes  and  Pylades  land  at  Tauri,  and,  according  to  the 
custom  of  the  place,  are  seized  and  taken  to  the  temple  of  Diana, 
There  one  of  them  must  be  offered  to  the  goddess.  Each  is  anx¬ 
ious  to  be  the  object  of  the  fatal  choice.  While  they  are  contend¬ 
ing,  they  find  that  the  priestess  is  the  sister  of  Orestes,  Iphige- 
nia,  who  had  been  transported  hither  from  the  altar  at  Aulis, 
where  she  had  been  about  to  suffer  a  similar  fate.  By  her  help 
they  escape. 


LETTERS  FROM  THE  PONTUS . 


129 


under  the  name  of  Ibis  is  said  to  have  been  one  Hyginus, 
a  freedman  of  the  Emperor  Augustus,  and  chief  of  the 
Palatine  Library.  The  principal  ground  for  this  idea 
is  that  Hyginus  was  certainly  at  one  time  on  terms  of 
intimate  friendship  with  Ovid,  and  that  none  of  the 
letters  written  in  exile  are  addressed  to  him.  Either  he 
or  some  one  else  among  the  numerous  acquaintances 
who  courted  the  poet  in  the  days  of  his  popularity,  and 
who  deserted  him  in  his  exile,  may  have  been  in  the 
author’s  thoughts;  but  the  poem  is  scarcely  serious.  It 
has  the  look  of  being  a  literary  tour  de  force.  Callima¬ 
chus  was  a  favorite  model  with  Roman  authors,  and 
Ovid  probably  amused  some  of  the  vacant  hours  of  his 
exile  with  translating  his  poem.*  Every  story  of  Greek 
mythology,  legend,  and  history  is  ransacked  to  furnish 
the  curses  which  are  heaped  on  the  head  of  the  luckless 
man.  “May  he  failover  a  staircase,  as  did  Elpenor, 
the  companion  of  Ulysses !  May  he  be  torn  to  pieces  by 
a  lioness,  as  was  Phayllus,  tyrant  of  Ambracia!  May 
he  be  killed  by  a  bee-sting  in  the  eye,  as  was  the  poet 
AchaeusJ  May  he  be  devoured,  as  Glaucus  was  de¬ 
voured,  by  his  horses;  or  leap,  as  did  another  Glaucus, 
into  the  sea!  May  he  drink,  with  trembling  mouth,  the 
same  draught  that  Socrates  drank,  all  undisturbed! 
May  he  perish  caught  by  the  hands,  as  was  Milo  in  the 
oak  which  he  tried  to  rend!”  These  are  a  few,  but, 
it  will  probably  be  thought,  sufficient,  examples  of 
the  “Ibis.” 


*  Allusions  to  Virgil’s  ^Eneid  show  that  it  was  not  wholly  a 
translation. 


380 


OVID . 


The  last  lines  written  by  Ovid  are  probably  some 
which  we  find  in  the  “Fasti”  under  the  first  of 'June, 
praising  Tiberius  for  the  pious  work  which  he  had  ac¬ 
complished  in  rebuilding  and  dedicating  various  tem¬ 
ples  at  Rome.  These  temples  were  dedicated,  as  wTe 
learn  from  Tacitus,  in  a.d.  17.  The  poet  died,  St. 
Jerome  tells  us,  in  the  same  year,  some  time  before 
September,  from  which  month,  in  Jerome’s  chronicle, 
the  years  are  reckoned.  It  had  been  his  earnest  wish 
that  the  sentence  which  had  been  so  rigorously  executed 
against  him  during  his  life  might  at  least  be  relaxed 
after  his  death,  and  that  his  bones  might  be  permitted 
to  rest  in  his  native  Italy.  The  desire  was  not  granted: 
he  was  buried  at  Tomi.  A  pretended  discovery  of  his 
tomb  was  made  early  in  the  sixteenth  century  at  Stainz, 
in  Austria — a  place  far  too  remote  from  Tomi  to  make 
the  story  at  all  probable.  If  his  body  could  have  been 
transported  so  far,  why  not  to  Italy?  The  story  ap¬ 
peared  in  another  edition;  the  tomb  and  its  epitaph 
were  the  same,  as  was  also  the  year  of  the  discovery, 
but  the  place  was  now  Sawar,  in  Lower  Hungary.  It 
may  probably  be  put  down  as  one  of  the  impostures, 
more  or  less  ingenious,  with  which  scholars  have  often 
amused  themselves,  and  of  which  the  period  following 
the  revival  of  learning— a  period  during  which  genuine 
discoveries  of  classical  remains  were  frequentl3r  made — 
was  particularly  fertile.  As  recently  as  the  beginning 
of  this  century,  it  was  announced  in  some  of  the  Pa¬ 
risian  papers  that  the  Russian  troops,  wdiile- engaged  in 
building  a  fortress  on  the  banks  of  the  Danube,  had 
opened  the  poet’s  sepulchre,  and  had  named  the  place 
Ovidopol,  in  his  honor.  Unfortunately  it  turned  out  that 
the  fortress  had  never  been  built,  or  even  commenced; 
and  that  the  local  name  of  Lagone  Ovidouloni  (which,  to 


FRAGMENTS  AND  LOST  POEMS.  181 


give  a  color  to  the  story,  had  been  changed  into  Lacus 
Ovidoli)  owed  its  origin,  not  to  any  remembrance  of 
Ovid,  but  to  the  practice  of  washing  there  the  sheep 
(Lat.  oms)  which  were  exported  in  large  numbers  from 
Moldavia  for  the  consumption  of  Constantinople.  We 
may  dismiss  as  equally  apocryphal  the  story  of  the  sil¬ 
ver  writing-style  of  the  poet,  which  was  shown  in  1540 
to  Isabella,  Queen  of  Hungary,  as  having  been  recently 
discovered  at  Belgrade,  the  ancient  Taurunum. 


CHPATER  IX. 

FRAGMENTS — LOST  POEMS — GENERAL  OBSERVATIONS. 

In  his  “Art  of  Love,”  Ovid  tells  his  readers  that  he 
had  written  a  book  on  “  Cosmetics,”  which  was  small 
in  size,  but  had  cost  him  much  pains.  Of  this  book  we 
have  remaining  a  fragment  of  about  a  hundred  lines. 
The  poet  begins  by  saying  that  everything  is  the  better 
for  cultivation — the  human  face  of  course  included. 
The  simple  Sabine  matrons  of  old  may  have  been  con¬ 
tent  to  spend  all  their  labor  on  their  fields,  but  the  fair 
ones  of  modern  Rome  had  different  tastes.  Dresses 
embroidered  with  gold,  hair  richly  scented  and  arranged 
in  various  ways,  fingers  adorned  with  rings,  and  ear¬ 
rings  of  pearls,  so  heavy  that  two  pearls  were  weight 
enough  for  an  ear — such  were  now  their  tastes.  How 
could  they  be  blamed,  for  the  tastes  of  men  were  just 
the  same?  They  were  quite  right  in  trying  to  please; 
only  let  them  please  in  lawful  ways.  Drugs  and  love- 
potions  must  be  eschewed.  Goodness  should  be  their 
chief  charm.  The  days  would  come  when  it  would  be 
a  pain  to  look  into  the  mirror;  but  virtue  lasts  through 
life,  and  the  love  which  attaches  itself  to  it  is  not  lightly 


132 


OVID. 


lost.  After  this  edifying  preface,  the  poet  proceeds  to 
his  subject.  His  instructions  are  eminently  practical  in 
character — giving  the  ingredients,  the  proper  weight, 
and  the  right  manner  of  mixing  them.  His  first  recipe 
is  for  brightening  the  complexion.  Take  two  pounds  of 
barley,  as  much  of  bitter  lupine,  and  ten  eggs;  dry  and 
then  grind  the  substance.  Add  a  sixth  of  a  pound  of 
stag’s-horns ;  they  must  be  those  shed  by  the  animal  for 
the  first  time.  The  mixture  is  to  be  passed  through  a 
sieve.  Twelve  narcissus-roots  with  the  rind  stripped  off 
are  to  be  pounded  in  a  marble  mortar;  add  the  sixth  of 
a  pound  of  gum,  and  as  much  spelt,  with  a  pound  and 
a  half  of  honey.  “Dress  your  face,”  says  the  poet, 
“with  this,  and  you  will  have  a  complexion  brighter 
than  your  mirror  itself.”  The  prescription  is  some¬ 
what  complicated;  but  then,  it  must  be  allowed,  the  ob¬ 
ject  is  difficult  of  attainment.  Color,  as  might  be  ex¬ 
pected,  is  more  easily  secured.  To  five  scruples  of 
fennel  add  nine  of  myrrh,  a  handful  of  dry  rose-leaves, 
and  a  quantity  equal  in  weight  to  the  rose-leaves  of 
gum-ammoniacum  and  frankincense,  and  pour  over  it 
the  liquor  of  barley.  What  other  secrets  of  beauty  Ovid 
may  have  unfolded  cannot  be  known,  for  here  the  frag¬ 
ment  breaks  off. 

About  a  hundred  and  thirty  lines  of  a  poem  on 
“Fishing”  have  also  survived;  but  they  are  in  a  very 
broken  condition,  and  a  passage  descriptive  of  land 
animals  has  somehow  found  its  way  into  the  midst  of 
them.  They  contain  nothing  practical,  except  it  is 
the  advice  which  those  acquainted  with  the  art  of 
sea-fisliing  will  recognize  as  sound,  that  the  fisherman 
must  not  try  his  fortune  in  very  deep  water.  A  poem 
called  the  “Walnut,”  in  which  the  tree  complains, 
among  other  things,  of  its  hard  lot  in  being  pelted 


FRAGMENTS  AND  LOST  POEMS.  183 


with  stones  by  passers-by,  has  been  attributed  to 
Ovid.  Some  critics  have  supposed  it  to  be  a  juvenile 
production,  but  the  weight  of  authority  is  against  its 
authenticity. 

In  the  tragedy  of  “Medea”  the  world  has  suffered  a 
serious  loss.  Quintilian,  a  severe  critic,  says  of  it  that 
it  seemed  to  him  to  prove  how  much  its  author  could 
have  achieved,  if  he  had  chosen  to  moderate  rather 
than  to  indulge  his  cleverness.  He  mentions  in  the 
same  context  the  “  Thyestes”  of  Varius,  which  might 
challenge  comparison,  he  says,  with  any  of  the  Greek 
tragedies.  The  two  dramas  are  also  coupled  together 
by  Tacitus  in  his  “Dialogue  about  Famous  Orators,” 
where  he  compares  the  popularity  of  dramatic  and 
oratorical  works,  just  as  we  might  couple  together 
“Hamlet”  and  “King  Lear.”  The  “ Medea”  has  been 
altogether  lost,  but  we  may  gather  some  idea  of  the 
manner  in  which  the  poet  treated  his  subject  from  the 
seventh  book  of  the  “Metamorphoses,”  the  first  half  of 
which  is  devoted  to  the  legend  of  the  great  Colchian 
sorceress.  What  portion  of  it  wras  chosen  for  the  sub¬ 
ject  of  the  drama  we  do  not  know;  but  it  may  be  con¬ 
jectured  that  while  the  “Medea”  of  Euripides  depicted 
the  last  scenes  of  her  career,  when  she  avenged  the 
infidelity  of  Jason  by  the  murder  of  her  children,  Ovid 
represented  her  at  an  earlier  time,  when,  as  the  daugh- 
tet  of  King  iEetes,  she  loved  and  helped  the  gallant 
leader  of  the  Argonauts.  Anyhow,  we  find  in  the 
“Metamorphoses”  a  very  fine  soliloquy,  in  which  the 
love-stricken  princess  holds  debate  between  Love  and 
Duty: 

“Up!  gird  thee!  for  delay 
Is  death  1  For  aye  thy  debtor  for  his  life 
Preserved  must  Jason  be!  And  torch  and  rite 
His  honored  wife  will  make  thee,  and  through  all 


134 


OVID. 


Pelasgian  cities  shall  their  matrons  hail 

The  Saviour  of  their  Prince !— Ah  1  thus  then,  thus 

My  Sister,  Brother,  Sire,  my  natal  soil, 

My  country’s  Gods,  do  1  desert,  and  fly 
To  exile  with  the  winds?— my  Sire  is  stern, 

Our  land  is  barbarous my  Brother  yet 
An  infant: — for  my  Sister,  with  my  own 
Her  vows  are  one: — and,  for  the  gods,— within 
This  bosom  beats  the  Greatest !  Little  ’tis 
To  lose,  and  much  to  win !  Fame  to  have  saved 
This  flower  of  all  Achaian  youth,  and  sight 
And  knowledge  of  a  nobler  land,  where  tower 
The  cities  of  whose  glory  Fame  even  here 
Loud  rumors,  and  the  culture  and  the  arts 
That  grace  the  life  of  Heroes !  More  than  all 
I'win  me  iEson’s  son,  for  whom  the  world 
With  all  its  treasures  were  but  cheap  exchange ! 

Oh  bliss!  to  be  his  wife,  his  envied  wife, 

Dear  to  his  kindred-Gods !  My  head  will  touch 
The  very  stars  with  rapture !  What  if  rocks, 

As  Rumor  speaks,  clash  jostling  in  our  track 
Athwart  the  Seas,  and  fell  Charybdis,  foe 
To  ships,  with  flux  and  reflux  terrible 
Swallows  and  spouts  the  foam-flood?— what  if,  girt 
With  serpents,  in  Sicilian  ocean-caves 
Devouring  Scylla  barks?— The  seas  for  me, 

Clasped  to  the  bosom  of  the  man  I  love, 

Will  wear  ho  terrors:— or,  within  his  arms, 

If  fear  should  rise, ’twill  be,  not  for  myself. 

But  only  for  my  Husband.  Husband?— Ah! 

With  what  fair  name,  Medea,  dost  thou  cloak 
Thy  purposed  crime?  Ah!  think  how  great  the  guilt 
Thou  darest,  and,  while  yet  thou  canst,  escape!” 


The  value  of  Ovid’s  poetry  has  been  estimated  from 
time  to  time  in  the  course  of  these  pages.  Quintilian 
says  that  he  was  too  much  in  love  with  his  own  clever¬ 
ness,  bht  that  he  was  in  some  respects  worthy  of  com¬ 
mendation.  Lord  Macaulay  confirms,  or  perhaps  am*. 


GENERAL  OBSERVATIONS. 


135 


plifies,  this  judgment,  when  he  says  that  Ovid  “had 
two  insupportable  faults:  the  one  is,  that  he  will 
always  be  clever;  the  other,  that  he  never  knows  when 
to  have  done.”  Of  the  “Metamorphoses”  the  same 
great  critic  wrote:  “There  are  some  very  fine  things 
in  this  poem;  and  in  ingenuity,  and  the  art  of  doing 
difficult  things  in  expression  and  versification  as  if 
they  were  the  easiest  in  the  world,  Ovid  is  quite  in¬ 
comparable.”  He  thought  that  the  best  parts  of  the 
work  were  the  second  book  (specimens  of  which  have 
been  given  in  Chapter  IV.),  and  the  first  half  of  the 
thirteenth  book,  where,  in  the  oratorical  contest  be¬ 
tween  Ajax  and  Ulysses  for  the  arms  of  Achilles,  his 
own  tastes  were  doubtless  satisfied.  The  severest  criti¬ 
cism  which  he  passes  upon  the  poet  is  when  he  pro¬ 
nounces  the  “Art  of  Love”  to  be  his  best  poem. 

If  popularity  is  a  test  of  merit,  Ovid  must  be  placed 
very  high  among  the  writers  of  antiquity.  No  classical 
poet  has  been  so  widely  and  so  continuously  read.  He 
seems  not  to  have  been  forgotten  even  when  learning 
and  the  taste  for  literature  were  at  their  lowest  ebb. 
Among  the  stories  which  attest  the  favor  in  which  he 
was  held  may  be  quoted  the  words  which  are  reported 
to  have  been  used  by  Alplionso,  surnamed  the  Mag¬ 
nanimous.  That  eccentric  prince,  who  may  be  called 
the  Pyrrhus  of  modern  history,  while  prosecuting  his 
conquests  in  Italy,  came  to  the  town  of  Sulmo,  which 
has  been  mentioned  as  Ovid’s  birthplace.  “Willingly  „ 
would  I  yield  this  region,  which  is  no  small  or  con¬ 
temptible  part  of  the  kingdom  of  Naples,  could  it  have 
been  granted  to  my  times  to  possess  this  poet.  Even 
dead  I  hold  him  to  be  of  more  account  than  the  pos¬ 
session  of  the  whole  of  Apulia.”  The  bibliography  of 
Ovid,  as  a  writer  in  the  “  Nouvelle  Biographie  Univcr- 


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